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THE  ART  OF 
THE  STORY-TELLER 


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THE  ART  OF  THE 
STORY-TELLER 


BY 

MARIE  L.  SHEDLOCK 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  1915 


55 


COPTBIGHT,  1915.  BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


NOTE  OP  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

My  thanks  are  due  to:  Mrs.  Josephine  Dodge 
Daskam  Bacon,  for  permission  to  use  an  extract  from 
"The  Madness  of  PhiHp,"  and  to  her  pubHshers, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

To  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin,  for  permission  to  use 
extract  from  "Thou  Shalt  Not  Preach,"  by  Mr.  John 
Burroughs. 

To  Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Co.,  for  permission  to 
use  "Milking  Time,"  of  Miss  Rossetti. 

To  Mrs.  William  Sharp,  for  permission  to  use 
passage  from  "The  Divine  Adventure,"  by  "Fiona 
MacLeod. 

To  Miss  Ethel  Clifford,  for  permission  to  use  the 
poem  of  "The  Child." 

To  Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley  and  the  Bobbs 
Merrill  Co.,  for  permission  to  use  "The  Treasure  of 
the  Wise  Man." 

To  Professor  Ker,  for  permission  to  quote  from 
"Sturla  the  Historian." 

To  Mr.  John  Russell,  for  permission  to  print  in 
full,  "A  Saga." 

To  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green,  and  Co.,  for  permis- 
sion to  use  "The  Two  Frogs,"  from  the  Violet  Fairy 
Book,  and  "To  Your  Good  Health,"  from  the  Crim- 
son Fairy  Book. 

To  Mr.  Heinemann  and  Lady  Glenconner,  for  per- 


NOTE  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

mission  to  reprint  "The  Water  Nixie,"  by   Pamela 
Tennant,  from  "The  Children  and  the  Pictures." 

To  Mr.  Maurice  Baring  and  the  Editor  of  The 
Morning  Post,  for  permission  to  reprint  "The  Blue 
Rose"  from  The  Morning  Post 

To  Dr.  Walter  Rouse  and  Mr.  J.  M.  Dent,  for 
permission  to  reprint  from  "The  Talking  Thrush" 
the  story  of  "The  Wise  Old  Shepherd." 

To  Rev.  R.  L.  Gales,  for  permission  to  use  the 
article  on  "Nursery  Rhymes"  from  the  Nation. 

To  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  for  permission  to  use  ex- 
tracts from  "Father  and  Son." 

To  Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus,  for  permission  to 
use  "Essay  on  Child's  Play"  (from  Virginihus 
Puerisque)  and  other  papers. 

To  Mr.  George  Allen  &  Co.,  for  permission  to  use 
"Ballad  for  a  Boy,"  by  W.  Cory,  from  "lonica." 

To  Professor  Bradley,  for  permission  to  quote  from 
his  essay  on  "Poetry  and  Life." 

To  Mr.  P.  A.  Barnett,  for  permission  to  quote  from 
"The  Commonsense  of  Education." 

To  Mr.  James  Stephens,  for  permission  to  reprint 
"The  Man  and  the  Boy." 

To  Mr.  Harold  Barnes,  for  permission  to  use  ver- 
sion of  "The  Proud  Cock." 

To  Mrs.  Arnold  Glover,  for  permission  to  print 
two  of  her  stories. 

To  Miss  Emilie  Poulson,  for  permission  to  use  her 
translation  of  Bjornsen's  poem. 

To  George  Routledge  &  Son,  for  permission  to  use 
stories  from  "Eastern  Stories  and  Fables." 

vi 


NOTE  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

To  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford,  for  permission  to  quote 
from  "Very  Short  Stories." 

To  Mr.  W.  Jenkyn  Thomas  and  Mr.  Fisher  Unwin, 
for  permission  to  use  "Arthur  in  the  Cave"  from  the 
Welsh  Fairy  Book. 


Vll 


PREFACE 

Some  day  we  shall  have  a  science  of  education 
comparable  to  the  science  of  medicine ;  but  even  when 
that  day  arrives  the  art  of  education  will  still  remain 
the  inspiration  and  the  guide  of  all  wise  teachers. 
The  laws  that  regulate  our  physical  and  mental  de- 
velopment will  be  reduced  to  order;  but  the  im- 
pulses which  lead  each  new  generation  to  play  its 
way  into  possession  of  all  that  is  best  in  life  will  still 
have  to  be  interpreted  for  us  by  the  artists  who,  with 
the  wisdom  of  years,  have  not  lost  the  direct  vision 
of  children. 

Some  years  ago  I  heard  Miss  Shedlock  tell  stories 
in  England.  Her  fine  sense  of  literary  and  dramatic 
values,  her  power  in  sympathetic  interpretation,  al- 
ways restrained  within  the  limits  of  the  art  she  was 
using,  and  her  understanding  of  educational  values, 
based  on  a  wide  experience  of  teaching,  all  marked 
her  as  an  artist  in  story-telling.  She  was  equally  at 
home  in  interpreting  the  subtle  blending  of  wit  and 
wisdom  in  Daudet,  the  folk  lore  philosophy  of  Grimm, 
or  the  deeper  world  philosophy  and  poignant  human 
appeal  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

Then  she  came  to  America  and  for  two  or  three 
years  she  taught  us  the  difference  between  the  nightin- 
gale that  sings  in  the  tree  tops  and  the  artificial  bird 
that  goes  with  a  spring.    Cities  like  New  York,  Bos- 

ix 


PREFACE 

ton,  Pittsburgh  and  Chicago  listened  and  heard,  if 
sometimes  indistinctly,  the  notes  of  universal  appeal, 
and  children  saw  the  Arabian  Nights  come  true. 

Yielding  to  the  appeals  of  her  friends  in  America 
and  England,  Miss  Shedlock  has  put  together  in  this 
little  book  such  observations  and  suggestions  on  story- 
telling as  can  be  put  in  words.  Those  who  have  the 
artist's  spirit  will  find  their  sense  of  values  quick- 
ened by  her  words,  and  they  will  be  led  to  escape 
some  of  the  errors  into  which  even  the  greatest  artists 
fall.  And  even  those  who  tell  stories  with  their 
minds  will  find  in  these  papers  wise  generalizations 
and  suggestions  born  of  wide  experience  and  ex- 
tended study  which  will  go  far  towards  making  even 
an  artificial  nighting^ale's  song  less  mechanical.  To 
those  who  know,  the  book  is  a  revelation  of  the  in- 
timate relation  between  a  child's  instincts  and  the 
finished  art  of  dramatic  presentation.  To  those  who 
do  not  know  it  will  bring  echoes  of  reality. 

Earl  Barnes. 


CONTENTS 

PART   I 
THE  ART  OF  STORY-TELLING 

CHAPTEE  PAGE 

I.    The  Difficulties  of  the  Story 3 

n.    The  Essentials  of  the  Story 23^ 

in.    The  Artifices  of  Story-telling    ....  31 
IV.    Elements  to  Avoid  in   Selection  of  Ma- 
terial      43 

V.    Elements  to  Seek  in  the  Choice  of  Ma- 
terial   .    .  •' 65 

VI.    How  to  Obtain  and  Maintain  the  Effect 

OF  THE  Story 99 

VII.    Questions  Asked  by  Teachers 133 

PART   II 

THE   STORIES 

Sturla,  THE  Historian 161 

A  Saga 165 

The  Legend  of  St.  Christopher 168 

Arthur  in  the  Cave 173 

Hafiz,  the  Stone-Cutter 179 

To  Your  Good  Health 183 

xi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Proud  Cock 191 

Snegourka 195 

The  Water  Nixie 198 

The  Blue  Rose 204 

The  Two  Frogs 213 

The  Wise  Old  Shepherd 216 

The  Folly  of  Panic 222 

The  True  Spirit  of  a  Festival  Day 225 

Filial  Piety 229 

Three  Stories  from  Hans  Christian  Andersen — 

The  Swineherd 233 

The  Nightingale 241 

The  Princess  and  the  Pea 257 


PART   III 

List   of   Stories   and   Books   Suggested   to   the 
Story-teller  and  Books  Referred  to  in  the 

List  of  Stories 259 

List  of  Stories 261 

Books  Suggested  to  the  Story-teller  and  Books 

Referred  to  in  the  List  of  Stories    ....    278 


Xll 


INTRODUCTION 

Story-telling  is  almost  the  oldest  art  in  the  world — 
the  first  conscious  form  of  literary  communication 
In  the  East  it  still  survives,  and  it  is  not  an  uncom- 
mon thing  to  see  a  crowd  at  a  street  comer  held  by 
the  simple  narration  of  a  story.  There  are  signs  in 
the  West  of  a  growing  interest  in  this  ancient  art, 
and  we  may  yet  live  to  see  the  renaissance  of  the 
troubadours  and  the  minstrels  whose  appeal  will  then 
rival  that  of  the  mob  orator  or  itinerant  politician. 
One  of  the  surest  signs  of  a  belief  in  the  educational 
power  of  the  story  is  its  introduction  into  the  cur- 
riculum of  the  training-college  and  the  classes  of  the 
elementary  and  secondary  schools.  It  is  just  at  the 
time  when  the  imagination  is  most  keen,  the  mind 
being  unhampered  by  accumulation  of  facts,  that 
stories  appeal  most  vividly  and  are  retained  for  all 
time. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  some  day  stories  will  be  told 
to  school  groups  only  by  experts  who  have  devoted 
special  time  and  preparation  to  the  art  of  telling  them. 
It  is  a  great  fallacy  to  suppose  that  the  systematic 
study  of  story-telling  destroys  the  spontaneity  of  nar- 
rative. After  a  long  experience,  I  find  the  exact  con- 
verse to  be  true,  namely,  that  it  is  only  when  one  has 
overcome  the  mechanical  difficulties  that  one  can  "let 
one's  self  go"  in  the  dramatic  interest  of  the  story. 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

By  the  expert  story-teller  I  do  not  mean  the  pro- 
fessional elocutionist.  The  name,  wrongly  enough, 
has  become  associated  in  the  mind  of  the  public  with 
persons  who  beat  their  breast,  tear  their  hair,  and 
declaim  blood-curdling  episodes.  A  decade  or  more 
ago,  the  drawing-room  reciter  was  of  this  type,  and 
was  rapidly  becoming  the  bugbear  of  social  gather- 
ings. The  difference  between  the  stilted  reciter  and 
the  jimple  story-teller,  is  perhaps  best  illustrated  by 
an  episode  in  Hans  Christian  /Andersen's  immortal 
"Story  of  the  Nightinp^ale."  The  real  Nightingale 
and  the  artificial  Nightingale  have  been  bidden  by 
the  Emperor  to  unite  their  forces  and  to  sing  a  duet 
at  a  Court  function.  The  duet  turns  out  most  dis- 
astrously, and  while  the  artificial  Nightingale  is  sing- 
ing his  one  solo  for  the  thirty-third  time,  the  real 
Nightingale  flies  out  of  the  window  back  to  the  green 
wood — a  true  artist,  instinctively  choosing  his  right 
atmosphere.  But  the  bandmaster — symbol  of  the 
pompous  pedagogue — in  trying  to  soothe  the  outraged 
feelings  of  the  courtiers,  says,  "Because,  you  see, 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  and,  above  all.  Your  Imperial 
Majesty,  with  the  real  nightingale  you  never  can  tell 
what  you  will  hear,  but  in  the  artificial  nightingale 
everything  is  decided  beforehand.  So  it  is,  and  so 
it  must  remain.     It  cannot  be  otherwise." 

And  as  in  the  case  of  the  two  nightingales,  so  it  is 
with  the  stilted  reciter  and  the  simple  narrator:  one 
is  busy  displaying  the  machinery,  showing  "how  the 
tunes  go";  the  other  is  anxious  to  conceal  the  art. 
Simplicity  should  be  the  keynote  of  story-telling,  but 
(and  here  the  comparison  with  the  nightingale  breaks 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 

down)  it  is  a  simplicity  which  comes  after  much  train- 
ing in  self-control,  and  much  hard  work  in  overcom- 
ing the  difficulties  which  beset  the  presentation. 

I  do  not  mean  that  there  are  not  born  story-tellers 
who  could  hold  an  audience  without  preparation,  but 
they  are  so  rare  in  number  that  we  can  afford  to 
neglect  them  in  our  general  consideration,  for  this 
work  is  dedicated  to  the  average  story-tellers  anx- 
ious to  make  the  best  use  of  their  dramatic  ability, 
and  it  is  to  them  that  I  present  my  plea  for  special 
study  and  preparation  before  telling  a  story  to  a 
group  of  children — that  is,  if  they  wish  for  the  far- 
reaching  effects  I  shall  speak  of  later  on.  Only  the 
preparation  must  be  of  a  much  less  stereotyped  na- 
ture than  that  by  which  the  ordinary  reciters  are 
trained  for  their  career. 

Some  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  America,  I  was 
asked  to  put  into  the  form  of  lectures  my  views  as 
to  the  educational  value  of  telling  stories.  A  sudden 
inspiration  seized  me.  I  began  to  cherish  a  dream 
of  long  hours  to  be  spent  in  the  British  Museum, 
the  Congressional  Library  in  Washington  and  the 
Public  Library  in  Boston — and  this  is  the  only  por- 
tion of  the  dream  which  has  been  realized.  I  planned 
an  elaborate  scheme  of  research  work  which  was  to 
result  in  a  magnificent  (if  musty)  philological  trea- 
tise. I  thought  of  trying  to  discover  by  long  and 
patient  researches  what  species  of  lullaby  were 
crooned  by  Egyptian  mothers  to  their  babes,  and 
what  were  the  elementary  dramatic  poems  in  vogue 
among  Assyrian  nursemaids  which  were  the  proto- 
types  of   ^'Little   Jack   Horner,"    ''Dickory,   Dickory 

XV 


INTRODUCTION  ^ 

Dock"  and  other  nursery  classics.  I  intended  to  fol- 
low up  the  study  of  these  ancient  documents  by  mak- 
ing an  appendix  of  modern  variants,  showing  what 
progress  we  had  made — if  any — among  modern  na- 
tions. 

But  there  came  to  me  suddenly  one  day  the  re- 
membrance of  a  scene  from  Racine's  "Plaideurs," 
in  which  the  counsel  for  the  defence,  eager  to  show 
how  fundamental  his  knowledge,  begins  his  speech : 

^'Before  the  Creation  of  the  World"— And  the 
Judge  (with  a  touch  of  weariness  tempered  by  hu- 
mor) suggests: 

"Let  us  pass  on  to  the  Deluge." 

And  thus  I,  too,  have  "passed  on  to  the  Deluge." 
I  have  abandoned  an  account  of  the  origin  and  past 
of  stories  which  at  best  would  only  have  displayed  a 
little  recently  acquired  book  knowledge.  When  I 
thought  of  the  number  of  scholars  who  could  treat 
this  part  of  the  question  infinitely  better  than  myself, 
I  realized  how  much  wiser  it  would  be — though  the 
task  is  more  humdrum — to  deal  with  the  present 
possibilities  of  story-telling  for  our  generation  of 
parents  and  teachers. 

My  objects  in  urging  the  use  of  stories  in  the  edu- 
cation of  children  are  at  least  fivefold: 

First,  to  give  them  dramatic  joy,  for  which  they 
have  a  natural  craving;  to  develop  a  sense  of  humor, 
which  is  really  a  sense  of  proportion;  to  correct  cer- 
tain tendencies  by  showing  the  consequences  in  the 
career  of  the  hero  in  the  story  [Of  this  motive  the 
children  must  be  quite  unconscious  and  there  should 
be  no  didactic  emphasis]  ;  to  present  by  means  of 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION 

example,  not  precept,  such  ideals  as  will  sooner  or 
later  be  translated  into  action;  and  finally,  to  de- 
velop the  imagination,  which  really  includes  all  the 
other  points. 

But  the  art  of  story-telling  appeals  not  only  to  the 
educational  world  and  to  parents  as  parents,  but  also 
to  a  wider  public  interested  in  the  subject  from  a 
purely  human  point  of  view. 

In  contrast  to  the  lofty  scheme  I  had  originally 
proposed  to  myself,  I  now  simply  place  before  all 
those  who  are  interested  in  the  art  of  story-telling  in 
any  form  the  practical  experiences  I  have  had  in 
my  travels  in  America  and  England. 

I  hope  that  my  readers  may  profit  by  my  errors, 
improve  on  my  methods,  and  thus  help  to  bring  about 
the  revival  of  an  almost  lost  art. 

In  ,Sir  Philip  Sydney's  ^'Defence  of  Poesie"  we 
find  these  words: 

"Forsooth  he  cometh  to  you  with  a  tale,  which 
holdeth  children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the 
chimney-corner,  and  pretending  no  more,  doth  intend 
the  winning  of  the  mind  from  wickedness  to  virtue 
even  as  the  child  is  often  brought  to  take  most  whole- 
some things  by  hiding  them  in  such  other  as  have 
a  pleasant  taste." 

Marie  L.  Shedlock, 

London. 


PART  I 
THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 


CHAPTER   I 
THE  DIFFICULTIES   OF   THE   STORY 

I  propose  to  deal  in  this  chapter  with  the  diffi- 
culties or  dangers  which  beset  the  path  of  the  story- 
teller, because,  until  we  have  overcome  these,  we 
cannot  hope  for  the  finished  and  artistic  presentation 
which  is  to  bring  out  the  full  value  of  the  story. 

The  difficulties  are  many,  and  yet  they  ought  not 
to  discourage  the  would-be  narrators,  but  only  show 
them  how  all-important  is  the  preparation  for  the 
story,  if  it  is  to  have  the  desired  effect. 

I  propose  to  illustrate  by  concrete  examples, 
thereby  serving  a  twofold  purpose:  one  to  fix  the 
subject  more  clearly  in  the  mind  of  the  student,  the 
other  to  use  the  art  of  story-telling  to  explain  itself. 

I  have  chosen  one  or  two  instances  from  my  own 
personal  experience.  The  grave  mistakes  made  in 
my  own  case  may  serve  as  a  warning  to  others  who 
will  find,  however,  that  experience  is  the  best 
teacher.  For  positive  work,  in  the  long  run,  we 
generally  find  out  our  own  method.  On  the  negative 
side,  however,  it  is  useful  to  have  certain  pitfalls 
pointed  out  to  us,  in  order  that  we  may  save  time 

3 


•'•'• '  ''•' TlHE  'A^k,  PF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

by  avoiding  them.    It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  sound 
a  note  of  warning. 

'  I.  There  is  the  danger  of  side  issues.  An  inex- 
perienced story-teller  is  exposed  to  the  temptation 
of  breaking  off  from  the  main  dramatic  interest  in 
a  short  exciting  story  in  order  to  introduce  a  side 
issue  which  is  often  interesting  and  helpful  but 
which  must  be  left  for  a  longer  and  less  dramatic 
story.  If  the  interest  turns  on  some  dramatic  mo- 
ment, the  action  must  be  quick  and  uninterrupted,  or 
it  will  lose  half  its  effect. 

I  had  been  telling  a  class  of  young  children  the 
story  of  Polyphemus  and  Ulysses,  and  just  at  the 
most  dramatic  moment  in  the  story  some  impulse 
for  which  I  cannot  account  prompted  me  to  go  off 
on  a  side  issue  to  describe  the  personal  appearance 
of  Ulysses. 

The  children  were  visibly  bored,  but  with  polite 
indifference  they  listened  to  my  elaborate  descrip- 
tion of  the  hero.  If  I  had  given  them  an  actual  de- 
scription from  Homer,  I  believe  that  the  strength  of 
the  language  would  have  appealed  to  their  imagina- 
tion (all  the  more  strongly  because  they  might  not 
have  understood  the  individual  words)  and  have 
lessened  their  disappointment  at  the  dramatic  issue 
being  postponed ;  but  I  trusted  to  my  own  lame  ver- 
bal efforts,  and  signally  failed.  Attention  flagged, 
fidgeting  began,  the  atmosphere  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing spoiled  in  spite  of  the  patience  and  toleration 

4 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

still  shown  by  the  children.  At  last,  however,  one 
little  girl  in  the  front  row,  as  spokeswoman  for  the 
class,  suddenly  said :  "If  you  please,  before  you  go 
any  further,  do  you  mind  telling  us  whether,  after 
all,  that  Poly  .  .  .  [slight  pause]  .  .  .  that  .  .  . 
[final  attempt]   .  .  .  Polyanthus  died?" 

Now,  the  remembrance  of  this  question  has  been 
of  extreme  use  to  me  in  my  career  as  a  story-teller. 
I  have  realized  that  in  a  short  dramatic  story  the 
mind  of  the  listeners  must  be  set  at  ease  with  regard 
to  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  special  Polyanthus  who 
takes  the  center  of  the  stage. 

I  remember,  too,  the  despair  of  a  little  boy  at  a 
dramatic  representation  of  "Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood,"  when  that  little  person  delayed  the  thrilling 
catastrophe  with  the  Wolf,  by  singing  a  pleasant 
song  on  her  way  through  the  wood.  "Oh,  why," 
said  the  little  boy,  "does  she  not  get  on?"  And  I 
quite  shared  his  impatience. 

This  warning  is  necessary  only  in  connection  with 
the  short  dramatic  narrative.  There  are  occasions 
when  we  can  well  afford  to  offer  short  descriptions 
for  the  sake  of  literary  style,  and  for  the  purpose  of 
enlarging  the  vocabulary  of  the  child.  I  have  found, 
however,  in  these  cases,  it  is  well  to  take  the  children 
into  your  confidence,  warning  them  that  they  are  to 
expect  nothing  particularly  exciting  in  the  way  of 
dramatic  event.  They  will  then  settle  down  with 
a  freer  mind  (though  the  mood  may  include  a  touch 

5 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

of  resignation)  to  the  description  you  are  about  to 
offer  them. 

*  2.  Altering  the  story  to  suit  special  occasions  is 
done  sometimes  from  extreme  conscientiousness, 
sometimes  from  sheer  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  chil- 
dren. It  is  the  desire  to  protect  them  from  knowl- 
edge which  they  already  possess  and  with  which 
they,  equally  conscientious,  are  apt  to  "turn  and 
rend"  the  narrator.  I  remember  once  when  I  was 
telling  the  story  of  the  Siege  of  Troy  to  very  young 
children,  I  suddenly  felt  anxious  lest  there  should 
be  anything  in  the  story  of  the  rape  of  Helen  not  al- 
together suitable  for  the  average  age  of  the  class, 
namely,  nine  years.  I  threw,  therefore,  a  domestic 
coloring  over  the  whole  subject  and  presented  an 
imaginary  conversation  between  Paris  and  Helen, 
in  which  Paris  tried  to  persuade  Helen  that  she  was 
a  strong-minded  woman  thrown  away  on  a  limited 
society  in  Sparta,  and  that  she  should  come  away 
and  visit  some  of  the  institutions  of  the  world  with 
him,  which  would  doubtless  prove  a  mutually  in- 
structive journey.^  I  then  gave  the  children  the  view 
taken  by  Herodotus  that  Helen  never  went  to  Troy, 
but  was  detained  in  Egypt.  The  children  were  much 
thrilled  by  the  story,  and  responded  most  eagerly 
when,  in  my  inexperience,  I  invited  them  to  repro- 

*  I  venture  to  hope  (at  this  long  distance  of  years)  that  my 
language  in  telling  the  story  was  more  simple  than  appears 
from  this  account. 

6 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

duce  in  writing  for  the  next  day  the  story  I  had  just 
told  them. 

A  small  child  presented  me,  as  you  will  see,  with 
the  ethical  problem  from  which  I  had  so  laboriously 
protected  her.    The  essay  ran : 

Once  upon  a  time  the  King  of  Troy's  son  was  called 
Paris.  And  he  went  over  to  Greace  to  see  what  it  was 
like.  And  here  he  saw  the  beautiful  Helencr,  and  like- 
wise her  husband  Menelaynj.  And  one  day,  Menela- 
yus  went  out  hunting,  and  left  Paris  and  Helener  alone, 
and  Paris  said:  "Do  you  not  feel  did  in  this  palis?"^  And 
Helener  said :  "I  feel  very  dull  in  this  pallice,"  ^  and  Paris 
said :  "Come  away  and  see  the  world  with  me."  So  they 
sliped  off  together,  and  they  came  to  the  King  of  Egypt, 
and  he  said:  "Who  is  the  young  lady"?  So  Paris  told 
him.  "But,"  said  the  King,  "it  is  not  proppcr  for  you  to 
go  off  with  other  people's  wifes.  So  Helener  shall  stop 
here."  Paris  stamped  his  foot.  When  Menelayus  got 
home,  he  stamped  his  foot.  And  he  called  round  him  all 
his  soldiers,  and  they  stood  round  Troy  for  eleven  years. 
At  last  they  thought  it  was  no  use  standing  any  longer, 
so  they  built  a  wooden  horse  in  memory  of  Helener  and 
the  Trojans  and  it  was  taken  into  the  town. 

Now,  the  mistake  I  made  in  my  presentation  was 
to  lay  any  particular  stress  on  the  reason  for  elope- 
ment by   my   careful   readjustment,    which    really 

*  This  difference  of  spelling  in  the  same  essay  will  be  much 
appreciated  by  those  who  know  how  gladly  children  offer  an 
orthographical  alternative,  in  hopes  that  one  if  not  the  other 
may  satisfy  the  exigency  of  the  situation. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

called  more  attention  to  the  episode  than  was  neces- 
sary for  the  age  of  my  audience;  and  evidently 
caused  confusion  in  the  minds  of  some  of  the  chil- 
dren who  knew  the  story  in  its  more  accurate  origi- 
nal form. 

While  traveling  in  America,  I  was  provided  with 
a  delightful  appendix  to  this  story.  I  had  been  tell- 
ing Miss  Longfellow  and  her  sister  the  little  girl's 
version  of  the  Siege  of  Troy,  and  Mrs.  Thorpe  made 
the  following  comment,  with  the  American  humor 
the  dryness  of  which  adds  so  much  to  its  value : 

"I  never  realized  before,"  she  said,  "how  glad  the 
Greeks  must  have  been  to  sit  down  even  inside  a 
horse,  when  they  had  been  standing  for  eleven 
years." 

,  3.  The  danger  of  introducing  unfamiliar  words 
IS  the  very  opposite  danger  of  the  one  to  which  I 
have  just  alluded ;  it  is  the  taking  for  granted  that 
children  are  acquainted  with  the  meaning  of  certain 
words  upon  which  turns  some  important  point  in 
the  story.  We  must  not  introduce,  without  at  least 
a  passing  explanation,  words  which,  if  not  rightly 
understood,  would  entirely  alter  the  picture  we  wish 
to  present. 

I  had  once  promised  to  tell  stories  to  an  audience 
of  Irish  peasants,  and  I  should  like  to  state  here 
that,  though  my  travels  have  brought  me  in  touch 
with  almost  every  kind  of  audience,  I  have  never 
found  one  where  the  atmosphere  is  so  *'self-pre- 

8 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

pared'*  as  in  that  of  a  group  of  Irish  peasants.  To 
speak  to  them,  especially  on  the  subject  of  fairy- 
tales, is  like  playing  on  a  delicate  harp :  the  response 
is  so  quick  and  the  sympathy  so  keen.  Of  course, 
the  subject  of  fairy-tales  is  one  which  is  completely 
familiar  to  them  and  comes  into  their  everyday  life. 
They  have  a  feeling  of  awe  with  regard  to  fairies, 
which  is  very  deep  in  some  parts  of  Ireland. 

On  this  particular  occasion  I  had  been  warned 
by  an  artist  friend  who  had  kindly  promised  to  sing 
songs  between  the  stories,  that  my  audience  would 
be  of  varying  age  and  almost  entirely  illiterate. 
Many  of  the  older  men  and  women,  who  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  had  never  been  beyond  their 
native  village.  I  was  warned  to  be  very  simple  in 
my  language  and  to  explain  any  difficult  words 
which  might  occur  in  the  particular  Indian  story  I 
had  chosen  for  that  night,  namely,  "The  Tiger,  the 
Jackal  and  the  Brahman."  ^  It  happened  that  the 
older  portion  of  the  audience  had  scarcely  ever  seen 
even  pictures  of  wild  animals.  I  profited  by  the  ad- 
vice and  offered  a  word  of  explanation  with  regard 
to  the  tiger  and  the  jackal.  I  also  explained  the 
meaning  of  the  word  Brahman — at  a  proper  dis- 
tance, however,  lest  the  audience  should  class  him 
with  wild  animals.  I  then  went  on  with  my  story, 
in  the  course  of  which  I  mentioned  a  buffalo.  In 
spite  of  the  warning  I  had  received,  I  found  it  im- 

'  See  "List  of  Stones." 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

possible  not  to  believe  that  the  name  of  this  animal 
would  be  familiar  to  any  audience.  I,  therefore, 
went  on  with  the  sentence  containing  this  word,  and 
ended  it  thus :  "And  then  the  Brahman  went  a  little 
further  and  met  an  old  buffalo  turning  a  wheel." 

The  next  day,  while  walking  down  the  village 
street,  I  entered  into  conversation  with  a  thirteen- 
year-old  girl  who  had  been  in  my  audience  the  night 
before  and  who  began  at  once  to  repeat  in  her  own 
words  the  Indian  story  in  question.  When  she  came 
to  the  particular  sentence  I  have  just  quoted,  I  was 
greatly  startled  to  hear  her  version,  which  ran  thus : 
"And  the  priest  went  on  a  little  further,  and  he  met 
another  old  gentleman  pushing  a  wheelbarrow.'*  I 
stopped  her  at  once,  and  not  being  able  to  identify 
the  sentence  as  part  of  the  story  I  had  told,  I  ques- 
tioned her  a  little  more  closely.  I  found  that  the 
word,  "buffalo,"  had  evidently  conveyed  to  her  mind 
an  old  "buffer"  whose  name  was  "Lo,"  probably 
taken  to  be  an  Indian  form  of  appellation,  to  be 
treated  with  tolerance  though  it  might  not  be  Irish 
in  sound.  Then,  not  knowing  of  any  wheel  more 
familiarly  than  that  attached  to  a  barrow,  the  young 
narrator  completed  the  picture  in  her  own  mind — 
doubtless,  a  vivid  one — but  which,  one  must  admit, 
had  lost  something  of  the  Indian  atmosphere  which 
I  had  intended  to  gather  about  it. 
.  4.  The  danger  of  claiming  cooperation  of  the 
class  by  means  of  questions  is  more  serious  for  the 

10 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

teacher  than  the  child,  who  rather  enjoys  the  process 
and  displays  a  fatal  readiness  to  give  any  sort  of 
answer  if  only  he  can  play  a  part  in  the  conversation. 
If  we  could  in  any  way  depend  on  the  children  giving 
the  kind  of  answer  we  expect,  all  might  go  well  and 
the  danger  would  be  lessened;  but  children  have  a 
perpetual  way  of  frustrating  our  hopes  in  this  di- 
rection, and  of  landing  us  in  unexpected  bypaths 
from  which  it  is  not  always  easy  to  return  to  the 
main  road  without  a  very  violent  reaction.  As 
illustrative  of  this,  I  quote  from  "The  Madness  of 
Philip,"  by  Josephine  Daskam  Bacon,  a  truly  de- 
lightful essay  on  child  psychology  in  the  guise  of 
the  lightest  of  stones. 

The  scene  takes  place  in  a  kindergarten,  where  a 
bold  and  fearless  visitor  has  undertaken  to  tell  a 
story  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  to  a  group  of  rest- 
less children. 

She  opens  thus : 

"Yesterday,  children,  as  I  came  out  of  my  yard,  what 
do  you  think  I  saw?'* 

The  elaborately  concealed  surprise  in  store  was  so  ob- 
vious that  Marantha  rose  to  the  occasion  and  suggested, 
"an  el'phunt." 

"Why,  no.  Why  should  I  see  an  elephant  in  my 
yard?  It  was  not  nearly  so  big  as  that — it  was  a  lit- 
tle thing." 

"A  fish,"  ventured  Eddy  Brown,  whose  eye  fell  upon 
the  aquarium  in  the  corner.  The  raconteuse  smiled  pa- 
tiently. 

II 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

"Now,  how  could  a  fish,  a  live  fish,  get  into  my  front 
yard?" 

"A  dead  fish,"  says  Eddy. 

He  had  never  been  known  to  relinquish  voluntarily  an 
idea. 

"No;  it  was  a  little  kitten,"  said  the  story-teller  de- 
cidedly. "A  little  white  kitten.  She  was  standing  right 
near  a  big  puddle  of  water.  Now,  what  else  do  you  think 
I  saw?" 

"Another  kitten,"  suggests  Marantha,  conservatively. 

"No;  it  was  a  big  Newfoundland  dog.  He  saw  the 
little  kitten  near  the  water.  Now,  cats  don't  like  water, 
do  they  ?    What  do  they  like  ?" 

"Mice,"  said  Joseph  Zukoffsky  abruptly. 

"Well,  yes,  they  do ;  but  there  were  no  mice  in  my  yard. 
I'm  sure  you  know  what  I  mean.  H  they  don't  like  water, 
what  do  they  like?" 

"Milk,"  cried  Sarah  Fuller  confidently. 

"They  like  a  dry  place,"  said  Mrs.  R.  B.  Smith.  "Now, 
what  do  you  suppose  the  dog  did?" 

It  may  be  that  successive  failures  had  disheartened  the 
listeners.  It  may  be  that  the  very  range  of  choice  pre- 
sented to  them  and  the  dog  alike  dazzled  their  imagina- 
tion.   At  all  events,  they  made  no  answer. 

"Nobody  knows  what  the  dog  did  ?"  repeated  the  story- 
teller encouragingly.  "What  would  you  do  if  you  saw  a 
little  kitten  like  that?" 

And  Philip  remarked  gloomily: 

"I'd  pull  its  tail." 

"And  what  do  the  rest  of  you  think?  I  hope  you  are 
not  as  cruel  as  that  little  boy." 

A  jealous  desire  to  share  Philip's  success  prompted  the 
quick  response: 

"I'd  pull  it  too." 

12 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

Now,  the  reason  of  the  total  failure  of  this  story 
was  the  inability  to  draw  any  real  response  from  the 
children,  partly  because  of  the  hopeless  vagueness 
of  the  questions,  partly  because,  there  being  no  time 
for  reflection,  children  say  the  first  thing  that  comes 
into  their  heads  without  any  reference  to  their  real 
thoughts  on  the  subject. 

I  cannot  imagine  anything  less  like  the  enlightened 
methods  of  the  best  kindergarten  teaching.  Had 
Mrs.  R.  B.  Smith  been  a  real,  and  not  a  fictional, 
person,  it  would  certainly  have  been  her  last  appear- 
ance as  a  raconteuse  in  this  educational  institution. 

5.  The  difficulty  of  gauging  the  effect  of  a  story 
upon  the  audience  rises  from  lack  of  observation 
and  experience;  it  is  the  want  of  these  qualities 
which  leads  to  the  adoption  of  such  a  method  as  I 
have  just  presented.  We  learn  in  time  that  want  of 
expression  on  the  faces  of  the  audience  and  want  of 
any  kind  of  external  response  do  not  always  mean 
either  lack  of  interest  or  attention.  There  is  often 
real  interest  deep  down,  but  no  power,  or  perhaps 
no  wish,  to  display  that  interest,  which  is  deliber- 
ately concealed  at  times  so  as  to  protect  oneself  from 
questions  which  may  be  put. 

•  6.  The  danger  of  overillustration.  After  long 
experience,  and  after  considering  the  effect  pro- 
duced on  children  when  pictures  are  shown  to  them 
during  the  narration,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  appeal  to  the  eye  and  the  ear  at  the  same 

13 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

time  is  of  doubtful  value,  and  has,  generally  speak- 
ing, a  distracting  effect:  the  concentration  on  one 
channel  of  communication  attracts  and  holds  the 
attention  more  completely.  I  was  confirmed  in  this 
theory  when  I  addressed  an  audience  of  blind  peo- 
ple ^  for  the  first  time,  and  noticed  how  closely  they 
attended,  and  how  much  easier  it  seemed  to  them 
because  they  were  so  completely  "undistracted  by  the 
sights  around  them," 

I  have  often  suggested  to  young  teachers  two  ex- 
periments in  support  of  this  theory.  They  are  not 
practical  experiments,  nor  could  they  be  repeated 
often  with  the  same  audience,  but  they  are  intensely 
interesting,  and  they  serve  to  show  the  actual  effect 
of  appealing  to  one  sense  at  a  time.  The  first  of 
these  experiments  is  to  take  a  small  group  of  chil- 
dren and  suggest  that  they  should  close  their  eyes 
while  you  tell  them  a  story.  You  will  then  notice 
how  much  more  attention  is  given  to  the  intonation 
and  inflection  of  the  voice.  The  reason  is  obvious. 
With  nothing  to  distract  the  attention,  it  is  concen- 
trated on  the  only  thing  offered  the  listeners,  that 
is,  sound,  to  enable  them  to  seize  the  dramatic  in- 
terest of  the  story. 

We  find  an  example  of  the  dramatic  power  of  the 
voice  in  its  appeal  to  the  imagination  in  one  of  the 
tributes  brought  by  an  old  pupil  to  Thomas  Edward 
Brown,  Master  at  Clifton  College : 

*At  the  Congressional  Library  in  Washington. 
14 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

"My  earliest  recollection  is  that  his  was  the  most 
vivid  teaching  I  ever  received ;  great  width  of  view 
and  poetical,  almost  passionate,  power  of  present- 
ment. We  were  reading  Fronde's  History,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  how  it  was  Brown's  words, 
Brown's  voice,  not  the  historian's,  that  made  me  feel 
the  great  democratic  function  which  the  monasteries 
performed  in  England ;  the  view  became  alive  in  his 
mouth."  And  in  another  passage:  "All  set  forth 
with  such  dramatic  force  and  aided  by  such  a  splen- 
did voice,  left  an  indelible  impression  on  my  mind."  ^ 

A  second  experiment,  and  a  much  more  subtle 
and  difficult  one,  is  to  take  the  same  group  of  chil- 
dren on  another  occasion,  telling  them  a  story  in 
pantomime  form,  giving  them  first  the  briefest  out- 
line of  the  story.  In  this  case  it  must  be  of  the 
simplest  construction,  until  the  children  are  able,  if 
you  continue  the  experiment,  to  look  for  something 
more  subtle. 

I  have  never  forgotten  the  marvelous  perform- 
ance of  a  play  given  in  London  many  years  ago  en- 
tirely in  pantomime  form.  The  play  was  called 
"L'Enfant  Prodigue,"  and  was  presented  by  a  com- 
pany of  French  artists.  It  would  be  almost  impos- 
sible to  exaggerate  the  strength  of  that  "silent  ap- 
peal" to  the  public.  One  was  so  unaccustomed  to 
reading  meaning  and  development  of  character  into 
gesture  and  facial  expression  that  it  was  really  a 
*  Letters  of  T.  E.  Brown,  page  55. 

15 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

revelation  to  most  of  those  present — certainly  to  all 
Anglo-Saxons. 

I  cannot  touch  on  this  subject  without  admitting 
the  enormous  dramatic  value  connected  with  the  cin- 
ematograph. Though  it  can  never  take  the  place  of 
an  actual  performance,  whether  in  story  form  or  on 
the  stage,  it  has  a  real  educational  value  in  its  pos- 
sibilities of  representation  which  it  is  difficult  to 
overestimate,  and  I  believe  that  its  introduction  into 
the  school  curriculum,  under  the  strictest  supervi- 
sion, will  be  of  extraordinary  benefit.  The  move- 
ment, in  its  present  chaotic  condition,  and  in  the 
hands  of  a  commercial  management,  is  more  likely 
to  stifle  than  to  awaken  or  stimulate  the  imagina- 
tion, but  the  educational  world  is  fully  alive  to  the 
danger,  and  I  am  convinced  that  in  the  future  of  the 
movement  good  will  predominate. 

The  real  value  of  the  cinematograph  in  connection 
with  stories  is  that  it  provides  the  background  that 
is  wanting  to  the  inner  vision  of  the  average  child, 
and  does  not  prevent  its  imagination  from  filling  in 
the  details  later.  For  instance,  it  would  be  quite 
impossible  for  the  average  child  to  get  an  idea  from 
mere  word-painting  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  polar 
regions  as  represented  lately  on  the  film  in  connec- 
tion with  Captain  Scott's  expedition,  but  any  stories 
told  later  on  about  these  regions  would  have  an  in- 
finitely greater  interest. 

There  is,  however,  a  real  danger  in  using  pictures 
i6 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

to  illustrate  the  story,  especially  if  it  be  one  which 
contains  a  direct  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  the 
child  and  one  quite  distinct  from  the  stories  which 
deal  with  facts,  namely,  that  you  force  the  whole 
audience  of  children  to  see  the  same  picture,  instead 
of  giving  each  individual  child  the  chance  of  making 
his  own  mental  picture.  That  is  of  far  greater  joy, 
and  of  much  greater  educational  value,  since  by  this 
process  the  child  cooperates  with  you  instead  of 
having  all  the  work  done  for  him. 

Queyrat,  in  his  work  on  "La  Logique  chez  1' En- 
fant," quotes  Madame  Necker  de  Saussure :  ^  "To 
children  and  animals  actual  objects  present  them- 
selves, not  the  terms  of  their  manifestations.  For 
them  thinking  is  seeing  over  again,  it  is  going 
through  the  sensations  that  the  real  object  would 
have  produced.  Everything  which  goes  on  within 
them  is  in  the  form  of  pictures,  or  rather,  inanimate 
scenes  in  which  life  is  partially  reproduced.  .  .  . 
Since  the  child  has,  as  yet,  no  capacity  for  abstrac- 
tion, he  finds  a  stimulating  power  in  words  and  a 
suggestive  inspiration  which  holds  him  enchanted. 
They  awaken  vividly  colored  images,  pictures  far 
more  brilliant  than  would  be  called  into  being  by  the 
objects  themselves." 

Surely,  if  this  be  true,  we  are  taking  from  chil- 
dren that  rare  power  of  mental  visualization  by  of- 
fering to  their  outward  vision  an  actual  picture. 

*  Page  55. 

17 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

I  was  struck  with  the  following  note  by  a  critic  of 
the  Outlook,  referring  to  a  Japanese  play  but  which 
bears  quite  directly  on  the  subject  in  hand. 

**First,  we  should  be  inclined  to  put  insistence 
upon  appeal  by  imagination.  Nothing  is  built  up  by 
lath  and  canvas ;  everything  has  to  be  created  by  the 
poet's  speech." 

He  alludes  to  the  decoration  of  one  of  the  scenes 
which  consists  of  three  pines,  showing  what  can  be 
conjured  up  in  the  mind  of  the  spectator. 

Ah,  yes.    Unfolding  now  before  my  eyes 
The  views  I  know:  the  Forest,  River,  Sea 
And  Mist — the  scenes  of  Ono  now  expand. 

I  have  often  heard  objections  raised  to  this  theory 
by  teachers  dealing  with  children  whose  knowledge 
of  objects  outside  their  own  little  limited  circle  is  so 
scanty  that  words  we  use  without  a  suspicion  that 
they  are  unfamiliar  are  really  foreign  expressions 
to  them.  Such  words  as  sea,  woods,  fields,  moun- 
tains, would  mean  nothing  to  them,  unless  some  ex- 
planation were  offered.  To  these  objections  I  have 
replied  that  where  we  are  dealing  with  objects  that 
can  actually  be  seen  with  the  bodily  eyes,  then  it  is 
quite  legitimate  to  show  pictures  of  those  objects 
before  you  begin  the  story,  so  that  the  distraction 
between  the  actual  and  mental  presentation  may  not 
cause  confusion;  but,  as  the  foregoing  example 
shows,  we  should  endeavor  to  accustom  the  children 

i8 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

to  seeing  much  more  than  the  mere  objects  them- 
selves, and  in  deahng  with  abstract  quahties  we  must 
rely  solely  on  the  power  and  choice  of  words  and 
dramatic  qualities  of  presentation,  and  we  need  not 
feel  anxious  if  the  response  is  not  immediate,  nor 
even  if  it  is  not  quick  and  eager. ^ 

7.  The  danger  of  obscuring  the  point  of  the 
story  with  too  many  details  is  not  peculiar  to  teach- 
ers, nor  is  it  shown  only  in  the  narrative  form.  I 
have  often  heard  really  brilliant  after-dinner  stories 
marred  by  this  defect.  One  remembers  the  attempt 
made  by  Sancho  Panza  to  tell  a  story  to  Don 
Quixote.  I  have  always  felt  a  keen  sympathy  with 
the  latter  in  his  impatience  over  the  recital. 

"In  a  village  of  Estramadura  there  was  a  shepherd — 
no,  I  mean  a  goatherd — which  shepherd  or  goatherd  as 
my  story  says,  was  called  Lope  Ruiz — and  this  Lope  Ruiz 
was  in  love  with  a  shepherdess  called  Torralva,  who  was 
daughter  to  a  rich  herdsman,  and  this  rich  herdsman " 

"If  this  be  thy  story,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "thou 
wilt  not  have  done  these  two  days.  Tell  it  concisely,  like 
a  man  of  sense,  or  else  say  no  more." 

"I  tell  it  in  the  manner  they  tell  all  stories  in  my  coun- 
try," answered  Sancho,  "arid  I  cannot  tell  it  otherwise, 
nor  ought  your  Worship  to  require  me  to  make  new  cus- 
toms." 

"Tell  it  as  thou  wilt,  then,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "since 
it  is  the  will  of  fate  that  I  should  hear  it,  go  on." 

^  In  further  illustration  of  this  point  see  "When  Burbage 
Played,"  Austen  Dobson,  and  "In  the  Nursery,"  Hans  An- 
dersen. 

19 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Sancho  continued: 

"He  looked  about  him  until  he  espied  a  fisherman  with 
a  boat  near  him,  but  so  small  that  it  could  only  hold  one 
person  and  one  goat.  The  fisherman  got  into  the  boat  and 
carried  over  one  goat;  he  returned  and  carried  another; 
he  came  back  again  and  carried  another.  Pray,  sir,  keep 
an  account  of  the  goats  which  the  fisherman  is  carrying 
over,  for  if  you  lose  count  of  a  single  one,  the  story  ends, 
and  it  will  be  impossible  to  tell  a  word  more.  ...  I  go  on, 
then.  .  .  .  He  returned  for  another  goat,  and  another, 
and  another  and  another " 

"Suppose  them  all  carried  over,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "or 
thou  wilt  not  have  finished  carrying  them  this  twelve 
months !" 

"Tell  me,  how  many  have  passed  already  ?"  said  Sancho. 

"How  should  I  know?"  answered  Don  Quixote. 

"See  there,  now !  Did  I  not  tell  thee  to  keep  an  exact 
account?  There  is  an  end  of  the  story.  I  can  go  no 
further." 

"How  can  this  be?"  said  Don  Quixote.  "Is  it  so  essen- 
tial to  the  story  to  know  the  exact  number  of  goats  that 
passed  over,  that  if  one  error  be  made  the  story  can  pro- 
ceed no  further?" 

"Even  so,"  said  Sancho  Panza. 

^  8.  The  danger  of  over  explanation  is  fatal  to  the 
artistic  success  of  any  story,  but  it  is  even  more 
serious  in  connection  with  stories  told  from  an 
educational  point  of  view,  because  it  hampers  the 
imagination  of  the  listener,  and  since  the  develop- 
ment of  that  faculty  is  one  of  our  chief  aims  in 
telling  these  stories,  we  must  leave  free  play,  we 
must  not  test  the  effect,  as  I  have  said  before,  by  the 

20 


THE  DIFFICULTIES  OF  THE  STORY 

material  method  of  asking  questions.  My  own  ex- 
perience is  that  the  fewer  explanations  you  offer, 
provided  you  have  been  careful  with  the  choice  of 
your  material  and  artistic  in  the  presentation,  the 
more  the  child  will  supplement  by  his  own  thinking 
power  what  is  necessary  for  the  understanding  of 
the  story. 

Oueyrat  says :  "A  child  has  no  need  of  seizing  on 
the  exact  meaning  of  words;  on  the  contrary,  a  cer- 
tain lack  of  precision  seems  to  stimulate  his  imagi- 
nation only  the  more  vigorously,  since  it  gives  him 
a  broader  liberty  and  firmer  independence."  ^ 

9.  The  danger  of  lowering  the  standard  of  the 
story  in  order  to  appeal  to  the  undeveloped  taste  of 
the  child  is  a  special  one.  I  am  alluding  here  only 
to  the  story  which  is  presented  from  the  educational 
point  of  view.  There  are  moments  of  relaxation  in 
a  child's  Hfe,  as  in  that  of  an  adult,  when  a  lighter 
taste  can  be  gratified.  I  allude  now  to  the  standard 
of  story  for  school  purposes. 

There  is  one  development  of  story-telling  which 
seems  to  have  been  very  little  considered,  either  in 
America  or  in  our  own  country,  namely,  the  telling 
of  stories  to  old  people,  and  that  not  only  in  institu- 
tions or  in  quiet  country  villages,  but  in  the  heart 
of  the  busy  cities  and  in  the  homes  of  these  old  peo- 
ple. How  often,  when  the  young  people  are  able 
to  enjoy  outside  amusements,  the  old  people,  neces- 

*  "Les  jeux  des  enfants,"  page  16. 
21 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

sarily  confined  to  the  chimney-corner  and  many  un- 
able to  read  much  for  themselves,  might  return  to 
the  joy  of  their  childhood  by  hearing  some  of  the 
old  stories  told  them  in  dramatic  form.  Here  is  a 
delightful  occupation  for  those  of  the  leisured  class 
who  have  the  gift,  and  a  much  more  effective  way  of 
capturing  attention  than  the  more  usual  form  of 
reading  aloud. 

Lady  Gregory,  in  talking  to  the  workhouse  folk  in 
Ireland,  was  moved  by  the  strange  contrast  between 
the  poverty  of  the  tellers  and  the  splendors  of  the 
tale.    She  says : 

"The  stories  they  love  are  of  quite  visionary 
things;  of  swans  that  turn  into  kings'  daughters, 
and  of  castles  with  crowns  over  the  doors,  and  of 
lovers'  flights  on  the  backs  of  eagles,  and  music- 
loving  witches,  and  journeys  to  the  other  world, 
and  sletps  that  last  for  seven  hundred  years." 

I  fear  it  is  only  the  Celtic  imagination  that  will 
glory  in  such  romantic  material ;  but  I  am  sure  the 
men  and  women  of  the  poorhouse  are  much  more 
interested  than  we  are  apt  to  think  in  stories  outside 
the  small  circle  of  their  lives. 


CHAPTER   II 
THE   ESSENTIALS    OF   THE   STORY 

It  would  be  a  truism  to  suggest  that  dramatic  in- 
stinct and  dramatic  power  of  expression  are  nat- 
urally the  first  essentials  for  success  in  the  art  of 
story-telling,  and  that,  without  these,  no  story-teller 
would  go  very  far;  but  I  maintain  that,  even  with 
these  gifts,  no  high  standard  of  performance  will 
be  reached  without  certain  other  qualities,  among  the 
first  of  which  I  place  apparent  simplicity,  which  is 
really  the  art  of  concealing  the  art. 

I  am  speaking  here  of  the  public  story-teller,  or 
of  the  teacher  with  a  group  of  children,  not  the 
spontaneous  (and  most  rare)  power  of  telling  stories 
at  the  fireside  by  some  gifted  village  grandmother, 
such  as  Beranger  gives  us  in  his  poem,  "Souvenirs 
du  Peuple" : 

Mes  enfants,  dans  ce  village, 
Suivi  de  rois,  il  passa ; 
Voila  bien  longtemps  de  cela ! 
Je  venais  d'entrer  en  menage, 
A  pied  grimpant  le  coteau, 
Ou  pour  voir  je  m'etais  mise. 

23 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

II  avait  petit  chapeau  et  redingote  grise. 
II  me  dit:    Bon  jour,  ma  chere. 
II  vous  a  parle,  grand'mere  ? 
II  vous  a  parle  ? 

I  am  skeptical  enough  to  think  that  it  is  not  the 
spontaneity  of  the  grandmother  but  the  art  of  Be- 
ranger  which  enhances  the  effect  of  the  story  told  in 
the  poem. 

This  intimate  form  of  narration,  which  is  delight- 
ful in  its  special  surroundings,  would  fail  to  reach, 
much  less  hold,  a  large  audience,  not  because  of  its 
simplicity,  but  often  because  of  the  want  of  skill  in 
arranging  material  and  of  the  artistic  sense  of  selec- 
tion which  brings  the  interest  to  a  focus  and  ar- 
ranges the  side  lights.  In  short,  the  simplicity  we 
need  for  the  ordinary  purpose  is  that  which  comes 
from  ease  and  produces  a  sense  of  being  able  to  let 
ourselves  go,  because  we  have  thought  out  our  ef- 
fects. It  is  when  we  translate  our  instinct  into  art 
that  the  story  becomes  finished  and  complete. 

I  find  it  necessary  to  emphasize  this  point  because 
people  are  apt  to  confuse  simplicity  of  delivery  with 
carelessness  of  utterance,  loose  stringing  of  sen- 
tences of  which  the  only  connections  seem  to  be  the 
ever-recurring  use  of  "and"  and  "so,"  and  "er 
.  .  .",  this  latter  inarticulate  sound  having  done 
more  to  ruin  a  story  and  distract  the  audience  than 
many  more  glaring  errors  of  dramatic  form. 

Real  simplicity  holds  the  audience  because  the 
24 


THE  ESSENTIALS  OF  THE  STORY 

lack  of  apparent  effort  in  the  artist  has  the  most 
comforting  effect  upon  the  listener.  It  is  like  turn- 
ing from  the  whirring  machinery  of  process  to  the 
finished  article,  which  bears  no  traces  of  the  making 
except  the  harmony  and  beauty  of  the  whole,  which 
make  one  realize  that  the  individual  parts  have  re- 
ceived all  proper  attention.  What  really  brings 
about  this  apparent  simplicity  which  insures  the  suc- 
cess of  the  story?  It  has  been  admirably  expressed 
in  a  passage  from  Henry  James'  lecture  on  Balzac : 

"The  fault  in  the  artist  which  amounts  most  com- 
pletely to  a  failure  of  dignity  is  the  absence  oi  sat^ 
uration  with  his  idea.  When  saturation  fails,  no 
other  real  presence  avails,  as  when,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  operates,  no  failure  of  method  fatally  in- 
terferes." 

I  now  offer  two  illustrations  of  the  effect  of  this 
saturation,  one  to  show  that  the  failure  of  method 
does  not  prevent  successful  effect,  the  other  to  show 
that  when  it  is  combined  with  the  necessary  secon- 
dary qualities  the  perfection  of  art  is  reached. 

In  illustration  of  the  first  point,  I  recall  an  experi- 
ence in  the  north  of  England  when  the  head  mistress 
of  an  elementary  school  asked  me  to  hear  a  young, 
inexperienced  girl  tell  a  story  to  a  group  of  very 
small  children. 

When  she  began,  I  felt  somewhat  hopeless,  be- 
cause of  the  complete  failure  of  method.  She 
seemed  to  have  all  the  faults  most  damaging  to  the 

25 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

success  of  a  speaker.  Her  voice  was  harsh,  her 
gestures  awkward,  her  manner  was  restless  and 
melodramatic;  but,  as  she  went  on  I  soon  began  to 
discount  all  these  faults  and,  in  truth,  I  soon  forgot 
about  them,  for  so  absorbed  was  she  in  her  story,  so 
saturated  with  her  subject,  that  she  quickly  com- 
municated her  own  interest  to  her  audience,  and  the 
children  were  absolutely  spellbound. 

The  other  illustration  is  connected  with  a  mem- 
orable peep  behind  the  stage,  when  the  late  M. 
Coquelin  had  invited  me  to  see  him  in  the  greenroom 
between  the  first  and  second  acts  of  ''L'Abbe  Con- 
stantin,"  one  of  the  plays  given  during  his  last  sea- 
son in  London,  the  year  before  his  death.  The  last 
time  I  had  met  M.  Coquelin  was  at  a  dinner  party, 
where  I  had  been  dazzled  by  the  brilliant  conversa- 
tion of  this  great  artist  in  the  role  of  a  man  of  the 
world.  But  on  this  occasion  I  met  the  simple,  kindly 
priest,  so  absorbed  in  his  role  that  he  inspired  me 
with  the  wish  to  offer  a  donation  for  his  poor,  and, 
on  taking  leave,  to  ask  for  his  blessing  for  myself. 
While  talking  to  him,  I  had  felt  puzzled.  It  was  only 
when  I  had  left  him  that  I  realized  what  had  hap- 
pened, namely,  that  he  was  too  thoroughly  saturated 
with  his  subject  to  be  able  to  drop  his  role  during  the 
interval,  in  order  to  assume  the  more  ordinary  one  of 
host  and  man  of  the  world. 

Now,  it  is  this  spirit  I  would  wish  to  inculcate  into 
the  would-be  story-tellers.     If  they  would  apply 

26 


THE  ESSENTIALS  OF  THE  STORY 

themselves  in  this  manner  to  their  work,  it  would 
bring  about  a  revolution  in  the  art  of  presentation, 
that  is,  in  the  art  of  teaching.  The  difficulty  of  the 
practical  application  of  this  theory  is  the  constant 
plea,  on  the  part  of  the  teachers,  that  there  is  not  the 
time  to  work  for  such  a  standard  in  an  art  which  is 
so  apparently  simple  that  the  work  expended  on  it 
would  never  be  appreciated. 

My  answer  to  this  objection  is  that,  though  the 
counsel  of  perfection  would  be  to  devote  a  great 
deal  of  time  to  the  story,  so  as  to  prepare  the  at- 
mosphere quite  as  much  as  the  mere  action  of  the 
little  drama  (just  as  photographers  use  time  expo- 
sure to  obtain  sky  effects,  as  well  as  the  more  defi- 
nite objects  in  the  picture),  yet  it  is  not  so  much 
a  question  of  time  as  concentration  on  the  subject, 
which  is  one  of  the  chief  factors  in  the  preparation 
of  the  story. 

So  many  story-tellers  are  satisfied  with  cheap  re- 
sults, and  most  audiences  are  not  critical  enough  to 
encourage  a  high  standard.^  The  method  of  "show- 
ing the  machinery"  has  more  immediate  results,  and 
it  is  easy  to  become  discouraged  over  the  drudgery 
which  is  not  necessary  to  secure  the  approbation  of 
the  largest  number.     But,  since  I  am  dealing  with 

*  A  noted  Greek  gymnast  struck  his  pupil,  though  he  was 
applauded  by  the  whole  assembly.  "You  did  it  clumsily,  and 
not  as  you  ought,  for  these  people  would  never  have  praised 
you  for  anything  really  artistic." 

27 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

the  essentials  of  really  good  story-telling,  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  suggesting  the  highest  standard  and 
the  means  for  reaching  it. 

Therefore,  I  maintain  that  capacity  for  work, I 
and  even  drudgery,  is  among  the  essentials  of  story-/ 
telling.  Personally,  I  know  of  nothing  more  inter- 
esting than  watching  the  story  grow  gradually  from 
mere  outline  into  a  dramatic  whole.  It  is  the  same 
pleasure,  I  imagine,  which  is  felt  over  the  gradual 
development  of  a  beautiful  design  on  a  loom.  I  do 
not  mean  machine-made  work,  which  has  to  be  done 
under  adverse  conditions  in  a  certain  time  and  which 
is  similar  to  thousands  of  other  pieces  of  work;  but 
that  work  upon  which  we  can  bestow  unlimited  time 
and  concentrated  thought. 

The  special  joy  in  the  slowly-prepared  story  comes 
in  the  exciting  moment  when  the  persons,  or  even 
the  inanimate  objects,  become  alive  and  move  as  of 
themselves.  I  remember  spending  two  or  three  dis- 
couraging weeks  with  Andersen's  story  of  the  "Ad- 
ventures of  a  Beetle."  I  passed  through  times  of 
great  depression,  because  all  the  little  creatures, 
beetles,  ear-wigs,  frogs,  etc.,  behaved  in  such  a  con- 
ventional, stilted  way,  instead  of  displaying  the 
strong  individuality  which  Andersen  had  bestowed 
upon  them  that  I  began  to  despair  of  presenting  a 
live  company  at  all. 

But  one  day,  the  Beetle,  so  to  speak,  "took  the 
stage,"  and  at  once  there  was  life  and  animation 

28 


THE  ESSENTIALS  OF  THE  STORY 

among  the  minor  characters.  Then  the  main  work 
was  done,  and  there  remained  only  the  compara- 
tively easy  task  of  guiding  the  movement  of  the 
little  drama,  suggesting  side  issues  and  polishing 
the  details,  always  keeping  a  careful  eye  on  the 
Beetle,  that  he  might  ''gang  his  ain  gait"  and  pre- 
serve to  the  full  his  own  individuality. 

There  is  a  tendency  in  preparing  stories  to  begin 
with  detail  work,  often  a  gesture  or  side  issue  which 
one  has  remembered  from  hearing  a  story  told,  but 
if  this  is  done  before  the  contemplative  period,  only 
scrappy,  jerky  and  ineffective  results  are  obtained, 
on  which  one  cannot  count  for  dramatic  effects. 
This  kind  of  preparation  reminds  one  of  a  young 
peasant  woman  who  was  taken  to  see  a  performance 
of  "Wilhelm  Tell,"  and  when  questioned  as  to  the 
plot  could  only  sum  it  up  by  saying,  *T  know  some 
fruit  was  shot  at."  ^ 

I  realize  the  extreme  difficulty  teachers  have  to 
devote  the  necessary  time  to  perfecting  the  stories  i 
they  tell  in  school,  because  this  is  only  one  of  the  \ 
subjects  they  have  to  teach  in  an  already  over- 
crowded curriculum.     To  them  I  would  offer  this 
practical  advice:     Do  not  be  afraid  to  repeat  your, 
stories.^    If  you  did  not  undertake  more  than  seven 

*For  further  details  on  the  question  of  preparation  of  the 
story,  see  chapter  on  "Questions  Asked  by  Teachers." 

'  Sully  says  that  children  love  exact  repetition  because  of 
the  intense  enjoyment  bound  up  with  the  process  of  imagina- 
tive realization. 

29 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

stories  a  year,  chosen  with  infinite  care,  and  if  you 
repeated  these  stories  six  times  during  the  year  of 
forty-two  weeks,  you  would  be  able  to  do  artistic 
and,  therefore,  lasting  work;  you  would  give  a 
very  great  deal  of  pleasure  to  the  children  who  de- 
light in  hearing  a  story  many  times.  You  would 
also  be  able  to  avoid  the  direct  moral  application, 
for  each  time  a  child  hears  a  story  artistically  told, 
a  little  more  of  the  meaning  underlying  the  simple 
story  will  come  to  him  without  any  explanation  on  | 
your  part.  The  habit  of  doing  one*s  best  instead  of 
one's  second-best  means,  in  the  long  run,  that  one 
has  no  interest  except  in  the  preparation  of  the  best, 
and  the  stories,  few  in  number,  polished  and  fin- 
ished in  style,  will  have  an  effect  of  which  one  can 
scarcely  overstate  the  importance. 

In  the  story  of  the  ''Swineherd,"  Hans  Andersen 
says : 

"On  the  grave  of  the  Prince's  father  there  grew  a 
rose-tree.  It  only  bloomed  once  in  five  years,  and 
only  bore  one  rose.  But  what  a  rose !  Its  perfume 
was  so  exquisite  that  whoever  smelt  it  forgot  at  once 
all  his  cares  and  sorrows." 

Laf cadio  Hearn  says : 

"Time  weeds  out  the  errors  and  stupidities  of 
cheap  success,  and  presents  the  Truth.  It  takes,  like 
the  aloe,  a  long  time  to  flower,  but  the  blossom  is  all 
the  more  precious  when  it  appears." 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  ARTIFICES   OF   STORY-TELLING 

By  this  term  I  do  not  mean  anything  against  the 
gospel  of  simpHcity  which  I  am  so  constantly  preach- 
ing, but,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  I  use  the  word 
''artifice"  to  express  the  mechanical  devices  by  which 
we  endeavor  to  attract  and  hold  the  attention  of 
the  audience.  The  art  of  telling  stories  is,  in  truth, 
much  more  difficult  than  acting  a  part  on  the  stage : 
First,  because  the  narrator  is  responsible  for  the 
whole  drama  and  the  whole  atmosphere  which  sur- 
rounds it.  He  has  to  live  the  life  of  each  character 
and  understand  the  relation  which  each  bears  to  the 
whole.  Secondly,  because  the  stage  is  a  miniature 
one,  gestures  and  movements  must  all  be  so  ad- 
justed as  not  to  destroy  the  sense  of  proportion.  I 
have  often  noticed  that  actors,  accustomed  to  the 
more  roomy  public  stage,  are  apt  to  be  too  broad  in 
their  gestures  and  movements  when  they  tell  a  story. 
The  special  training  for  the  story-teller  should  con- 
sist not  only  in  the  training  of  the  voice  and  in  choice 
of  language,  but  above  all  in  power  of  delicate  sug- 
gestion, which  cannot  always  be  used  on  the  stage 

31 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

because  this  is  hampered  by  the  presence  of  actual 
things.  The  story-teller  has  to  present  these  things 
to  the  more  delicate  organism  of  the  "inward  eye." 

So  deeply  convinced  am  I  of  the  miniature  char- 
acter of  the  story-telling  art  that  I  believe  one  never 
gets  a  perfectly  artistic  presentation  of  this  kind  in 
a  very  large  hall  or  before  a  very  large  audience. 

I  have  made  experiments  along  this  line,  having 
twice  told  a  story  to  an  audience  in  America  ^  ex- 
ceeding five  thousand,  but  on  both  occasions,  though 
the  dramatic  reaction  upon  oneself  from  the  re- 
sponse of  so  large  an  audience  was  both  gratifying 
and  stimulating,  I  was  forced  to  sacrifice  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  story  and  to  take  from  its  artistic  value 
by  the  necessity  of  emphasis,  in  order  to  be  heard  by 
all  present. 

Emphasis  is  the  bane  of  all  story-telling,  for  it 
destroys  the  delicacy,  and  the  whole  performance 
suggests  a  struggle  in  conveying  the  message.  The 
indecision  of  the  victory  leaves  the  audience  restless 
and  unsatisfied. 

Then,  again,  as  compared  with  acting  on  the 
stage,  in  telling  a  story  one  misses  the  help  of  ef- 
fective entrances  and  exits,  the  footlights,  the  cos- 
tume, the  facial  expression  of  your  fellow-actor 
which  interprets  so  much  of  what  you  yourself  say 
without  further  elaboration  on  your  part;  for,  in 

^  At  the  Summer  School  at  Chautauqua,  New  York,  and  at 
Lincoln  Park,  Chicago. 

32 


THE  ARTIFICES  OF  STORY-TELLING 

the  story,  in  case  of  a  dialogue  which  necessitates 
great  subtlety  and  quickness  in  facial  expression  and 
gesture,  one  has  to  be  both  speaker  and  listener. 

Now,  of  what  artifices  can  we  make  use  to  take 
the  place  of  all  the  extraneous  help  offered  to  actors 
on  the  stage?  First  and  foremost,  as  a  means  of 
suddenly  pulling  up  the  attention  of  the  audience, 
is  the  judicious  art  of  pausing.  For  those  who  have 
not  actually  had  experience  in  the  matter,  this  ad- 
vice will  seem  trite  and  unnecessary,  but  those  who 
have  even  a  little  experience  will  realize  with  me  the 
extraordinary  efficacy  of  this  very  simple  means.  It 
is  really  what  Coquelin  spoke  of  as  a  "high  light," 
where  the  interest  is  focused,  as  it  were,  to  a  point. 

I  have  tried  this  simple  art  of  pausing  with  every 
kind  of  audience,  and  I  have  very  rarely  known  it 
to  fail.  It  is  very  difficult  to  offer  a  concrete  ex- 
ample of  this,  unless  one  is  giving  a  "live"  repre- 
sentation, but  I  shall  make  an  attempt,  and  at  least 
I  shall  hope  to  make  myself  understood  by  those  who 
have  heard  me  tell  stories. 

In  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  "Princess  and  the 
Pea,"  the  King  goes  down  to  open  the  door  himself. 
Now,  one  may  make  this  point  in  two  ways.  One 
may  either  say :  "And  then  the  King  went  to  the 
door,  and  at  the  door  there  stood  a  real  Princess," 
or,  "And  then  the  King  went  to  the  door,  and  at  the 
door  there  stood — (pause) — a  real  Princess." 

It  is  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  difference  of  ef- 
33 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

feet  produeed  by  so  slight  a  pause.^  With  ehildren 
it  means  an  unconscious  curiosity  which  expresses 
itself  in  a  sudden  muscular  tension.  There  is  just 
time  during  that  instant's  pause  to  feel,  though  not 
to  formulate,  the  question:  "What  is  standing  at 
the  door?"  By  this  means,  half  your  work  of  hold- 
ing the  attention  is  accomplished.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary for  me  to  enter  into  the  psychological  reason 
of  this,  but  I  strongly  recommend  those  who  are 
interested  in  the  question  to  read  the  chapter  in 
Ribot's  work  on  this  subject,  "Essai  sur  I'lmagina- 
tion  Creatrice,"  as  well  as  Mr.  Keatinge's  work  on 
"Suggestion." 

I  would  advise  all  teachers  to  revise  their  stories 
with  a  view  to  introducing  the  judicious  pause,  and 
to  vary  its  use  according  to  the  age,  the  number, 
and,  above  all,  the  mood  of  the  audience.  Experi- 
ence alone  can  insure  success  in  this  matter.  It  has 
taken  me  many  years  to  realize  the  importance  of 
this  artifice. 

Among  other  means  for  holding  the  attention  of 
the  audience  and  helping  to  bring  out  the  points  of 
the  story  is  the  use  of  gesture.  I  consider,  however, 
that  it  must  be  a  sparing  use,  and  not  of  a  broad  or 
definite  character.  We  shall  never  improve  on  the 
advice  given  by  Hamlet  to  the  actors  on  this  subject : 
"See  that  ye  o'erstep  not  the  modesty  of  Nature." 

*  There  must  be  no  more  emphasis  in  the  second  manner 
than  the  first. 

34 


THE  ARTIFICES  OF  STORY-TELLING 

And  yet,  perhaps,  it  is  not  necessary  to  warn 
story-tellers  against  abuse  of  gesture.  It  is  more 
helpful  to  encourage  them  in  the  use  of  it,  especially 
in  Anglo-Saxon  countries,  where  we  are  fearful  of 
expressing  ourselves  in  this  way,  and  when  we  do 
the  gesture  often  lacks  subtlety.  The  Anglo-Saxon, 
when  he  does  move  at  all,  moves  in  solid  blocks — a 
whole  arm,  a  whole  leg,  the  whole  body — but  if  one 
watches  a  Frenchman  or  an  Italian  in  conversation, 
one  suddenly  realizes  how  varied  and  subtle  are  the 
things  which  can  be  suggested  by  the  mere  turn  of 
the  wrist  or  the  movement  of  a  finger.  The  power 
of  the  hand  has  been  so  wonderfully  summed  up  in 
a  passage  from  Quintillian  that  I  am  justified  in 
offering  it  to  all  those  who  wish  to  realize  what  car 
be  done  by  gesture : 

'*As  to  the  hands,  without  the  aid  of  which  all 
delivery  would  be  deficient  and  weak,  it  can  scarcely 
be  told  of  what  a  variety  of  motions  they  are  sus- 
ceptible, since  they  almost  equal  in  expression  the 
power  of  language  itself.  For  other  parts  of  the 
body  assist  the  speaker,  but  these,  I  may  almost  say, 
speak  themselves.  With  our  hands  we  ask,  promise, 
call  persons  to  us  and  send  them  away,  threaten, 
supplicate,  intimate  dislike  or  fear;  with  our  hands 
we  signify  joy,  grief,  doubt,  acknowledgment,  peni- 
tence, and  indicate  measure,  quantity,  number  and 
time.  Have  not  our  hands  the  power  of  inciting,  of 
restraining,  or  beseeching,  of  testifying  approba- 

35 


THE  ART  OF  THE!  STORY-TELLER 

tion?  ...  So  that  amidst  the  great  diversity  of 
tongues  pervading  all  nations  and  people,  the  lan- 
guage of  the  hands  appears  to  be  a  language  common 
to  all  men."  ^ 

One  of  the  most  effective  of  artifices  in  telling 
stories  to  young  children  is  the  use  of  mimicry — 
the  imitation  of  animals'  voices  and  sounds  in  gen- 
eral is  of  never-ending  joy  to  the  listeners.  How- 
ever, I  should  wish  to  introduce  a  note  of  grave 
warning  in  connection  with  this  subject.  This  spe- 
cial artifice  can  only  be  used  by  such  narrators  as 
have  special  aptitude  and  gifts  in  this  direction. 
There  are  many  people  with  good  imaginative  power 
but  who  are  wholly  lacking  in  the  power  of  mimicry, 
and  their  efforts  in  this  direction,  however  pains- 
taking, remain  grotesque  and  therefore  ineffective. 
When  listening  to  such  performances,  of  which  chil- 
dren are  strangely  critical,  one  is  reminded  of  the 
French  story  in  which  the  amateur  animal  painter 
is  showing  her  picture  to  an  undiscriminating 
friend : 

"Ah !"  says  the  friend,  "this  is  surely  meant  for  a 
lion?" 

"No,"  says  the  artist  ( ?),  with  some  slight  show 
of  temper,  "it  is  my  little  lap-dog." 

Another  artifice  which  is  particularly  successful 
with  very  small  children  is  to  insure  their  attention 
by  inviting  their  cooperation  before  one  actually 
*From  "Education  of  an  Orator,"  Book  II,  Chapter  3. 

36 


^  THE  ARTIFICES  OF  STORY-TELLING 

\ 

I       begins  the  story.     The  following  has  proved  quite 
effective  as  a  short  introduction  to  my  stories  when 
.:      I  was  addressing  large  audiences  of  children: 
[.  •  "Do  you  know  that  last  night  I  had  a  very  strange 

;        dream,  which  I  am  going  to  tell  you  before  I  begin 
the  stories?     I  dreamed  that  I  was  walking  along 

!;■      the  streets  of [here  would  follow  the  town  in 

i  which  I  happened  to  be  speaking],  with  a  large 
r  bundle  on  my  shoulders,  and  this  bundle  was  full  of 
^  stories  which  I  had  been  collecting  all  over  the 
world  in  different  countries ;  and  I  was  shouting  at 
the  top  of  my  voice :  'Stories !  Stories !  Stories ! 
Who  will  listen  to  my  stories?'  And  the  children 
came  flocking  round  me  in  my  dream,  saying :  'Tell 
tis  your  stories.  We  will  listen  to  your  stories.'  So 
I  pulled  out  a  story  from  my  big  bundle  and  I  began 
in  a  most  excited  way,  'Once  upon  a  time  there  lived 
a  King  and  a  Queen  who  had  no  children,  and 

they '     Here  a  little  boy,  very  much  like  that 

little  boy  I  see  sitting  in  the  front  row,  stopped  me, 
saying:  'Oh,  I  know  that  old  story:  it's  Sleeping 
Beauty.' 

"So  I  pulled  out  a  second  story,  and  began :  'Once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl  who  was  sent  by 

her  mother  to  visit  her  grandmother '     Then  a 

little  girl,  so  much  like  the  one  sitting  at  the  end  of 
the  second  row,  said :     'Oh !  everybody  knows  that 

story!    It's '" 

Here  I  would  make  a  judicious  pause,  and  then 

37 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

the  children  in  the  audience  would  shout  in  chorus, 
with  joyful  superiority:  "Little  Red  Riding- 
Hood  !"  before  I  had  time  to  explain  that  the  chil- 
dren in  my  dream  had  done  the  same. 

This  method  I  repeated  two  or  three  times,  being 
careful  to  choose  very  well-known  stories.  By  this 
time  the  children  were  all  encouraged  and  stimu- 
lated. I  usually  finished  with  congratulations  on 
the  number  of  stories  they  knew,  expressing  a  hope 
that  some  of  those  I  was  going  to  tell  that  afternoon 
would  be  new  to  them.  I  have  rarely  found  this 
plan  fail  to  establish  a  friendly  relation  between 
oneself  and  the  juvenile  audience.  It  is  often  a 
matter  of  great  difficulty,  not  to  zvin  the  attention 
of  an  audience  but  to  keep  it,  and  one  of  the  most 
subtle  artifices  is  to  let  the  audience  down  (without 
their  perceiving  it)  after  a  dramatic  situation,  so 
that  the  reaction  may  prepare  them  for  the  interest 
of  the  next  situation. 

An  excellent  instance  of  this  is  to  be  found  in 
Rudyard  Kipling's  story  of  "The  Cat  That  Walked 
.  .  ."  where  the  repetition  of  words  acts  as  a  sort 
of  sedative  until  one  realizes  the  beginning  of  a 
fresh  situation. 

The  great  point  is  never  to  let  the  audience  quite 
down,  that  is,  in  stories  which  depend  on  dramatic 
situations.  It  is  just  a  question  of  shade  and  color 
in  the  language.  If  you  are  telling  a  story  in  sec- 
tions, and  one  spread  over  two  or  three  occasions, 

38 


THE  ARTIFICES  OF  STORY-TELLING 

you  should  always  stop  at  an  exciting  moment.  It 
encourages  speculation  in  the  children's  minds, 
which  increases  their  interest  when  the  story  is 
taken  up  again. 

Another  very  necessary  quality  in  the  mere  arti- 
fice of  story-telling  is  to  watch  your  audience,  so  as 
to  be  able  to  know  whether  its  mood  is  for  action  or 
reaction,  and  to  alter  your  story  accordingly.  The 
moods  of  reaction  are  rarer,  and  you  must  use  them 
for  presenting  a  different  kind  of  material.  Here  is 
your  opportunity  for  introducing  a  piece  of  poetic 
description,  given  in  beautiful  language,  to  which 
the  children  cannot  listen  when  they  are  eager  for 
action  and  dramatic  excitement. 

Perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  artifices  is  to  take  a 
quick  hold  of  your  audience  by  a  striking  beginning 
which  will  enlist  their  attention  from  the  start.  You 
can  then  relax  somewhat,  but  you  must  be  careful 
also  of  the  end  because  that  is  what  remains  most 
vivid  for  the  children.  If  you  question  them  as 
to  which  story  they  like  best  in  a  program,  you  will 
constantly  find  it  to  be  the  last  one  you  have  told, 
which  has  for  the  moment  blurred  out  the  others. 

Here  are  a  few  specimens  of  beginnings  which 
seldom  fail  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  child : 

"There  was  once  a  giant  ogre,  and  he  lived  in  a 
cave  by  himself.'*  From  *'The  Giant  and  the  Jack- 
straws,"  David  Starr  Jordan. 

"There  were  once  twenty-five  tin  soldiers,  who 
39 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

were  all  brothers,  for  they  had  been  made  out  of 
the  same  old  tin  spoon."  From  *The  Tin  Soldier," 
Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

"There  was  once  an  Emperor  who  had  a  horse 
shod  with  gold."  From  "The  Beetle,"  Hans  Chris- 
tian Andersen. 

"There  was  once  a  merchant  who  was  so  rich  that 
he  could  have  paved  the  whole  street  with  gold,  and 
even  then  he  would  have  had  enough  for  a  small 
alley."  From  "The  Flying  Trunk,"  Hans  Christian 
Andersen. 

"There  was  once  a  shilling  which  came  forth  from 
the  mint  springing  and  shouting,  'Hurrah !  Now  I 
am  going  out  into  the  wide  world.'  "  From  "The 
Silver  Shilling,"  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

"In  the  High  and  Far  Off  Times  the  Elephant,  O 
Best  Beloved,  had  no  trunk."  From  "The  Ele- 
phant's Child":  "Just  So  Stories,"  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling. 

"Not  always  was  the  Kangaroo  as  now  we  behold 
him,  but  a  Different  Animal  with  four  short  legs." 
From  "Old  Man  Kangaroo":  "Just  So  Stories," 
Rudyard  Kipling. 

"Whichever  way  I  turn,"  said  the  weather-cock 
on  a  high  steeple,  "no  one  is  satisfied."  From  "Fire- 
side Fables,"  Edwin  Barrow. 

"A  set  of  chessmen,  left  standing  on  their  board, 
resolved  to  alter  the  rules  of  the  game."  From  the 
same  source. 

40 


THE  ARTIFICES  OF  STORY-TELLING 

"The  Pink  Parasol  had  tender  whalebone  ribs 
and  a  slender  stick  of  cherry-wood."  From  "Very 
Short  Stories,"  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford. 

"There  was  once  a  poor  little  Donkey  on  Wheels : 
it  had  never  wagged  its  tail,  or  tossed  its  head,  or 
said  *Hee-haw,'  or  tasted  a  tender  thistle."  From 
the  same  source. 

Now,  some  of  these  beginnings  are,  of  course,  for 
very  young  children,  but  they  all  have  the  same  ad- 
vantage, that  of  plunging  in  medias  res,  and,  there- 
fore, arrest  attention  at  once,  contrary  to  the  stories 
which  open  on  a  leisurely  note  of  description. 

In  the  same  way  we  must  be  careful  about  the 
endings  of  the  stories.  They  must  impress  them- 
selves either  in  a  very  dramatic  climax  to  which  the 
whole  story  has  worked  up,  as  in  the  following : 

"Then  he  goes  out  to  the  Wet  Wild  Woods,  or 
up  the  Wet  Wild  Trees,  or  on  the  Wet  Wild  Roofs, 
waving  his  Wild  Tail,  and  walking  by  his  Wild 
Lone."    From  "Just  So  Stories,"  Rudyard  Kipling. 

Or  by  an  anti-climax  for  effect : 

*'We  have  all  this  straight  out  of  the  alderman's 
newspaper,  but  it  is  not  to  be  depended  on."  From 
"Jack  the  Dullard,"  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

Or  by  evading  the  point : 
I      "Whoever  does  not  believe  this  must  buy  shares 
in  the  Tanner's  yard."     From  "A  Great  Grief," 
Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

Or  by  some  striking  general  comment : 
41 


I 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

"He  has  never  caught  up  with  the  three  days  he 
missed  at  the  beginning  of  the  world,  and  he  has 
never  learnt  how  to  behave."  From  ''How  the 
Camel  got  his  Hump"  :  ^'J^st  So  Stories,"  Rudyard 
Kipling. 

I  have  only  suggested  in  this  chapter  a  few  of  the 
artifices  which  I  have  found  useful  in  my  own  ex- 
perience, but  I  am  sure  that  many  more  might  be 
added. 


CHAPTER   IV 

ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID   IN   SELECTION   OF 
MATERIAL 

I  am  confronted  in  this  portion  of  my  work  with 
a  great  difficulty,  because  I  cannot  afford  to  be  as 
cathoHc  as  I  could  wish  (this  rejection  or  selection 
of  material  being  primarily  intended  for  those  story- 
tellers dealing  with  normal  children)  ;  but  I  do  wish 
from  the  outset  to  distinguish  between  a  story  told 
to  an  individual  child  in  the  home  circle  or  by  a 
personal  friend,  and  a  story  told  to  a  group  of  chil- 
dren as  part  of  the  school  curriculum.  And  if  I 
seem  to  reiterate  this  difference,  it  is  because  I  wish 
to  show  very  clearly  that  the  recital  of  parents  and 
friends  may  be  quite  separate  in  content  and  manner 
from  that  offered  by  the  teaching  world.  In  the 
former  case,  almost  any  subject  can  be  treated,  be- 
cause, knowing  the  individual  temperament  of  the 
child,  a  wise  parent  or  friend  knows  also  what  can 
be  presented  or  not  presented  to  the  child;  but  in 
dealing  with  a  group  of  normal  children  in  school 
much  has  to  be  eliminated  that  could  be  given  fear- 
lessly to  the  abnormal  child ;  I  mean  the  child  who, 

43 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

by  circumstances  or  temperament,  is  developed  be- 
yond his  years. 

I  shall  now  mention  some  of  the  elements  which 
experience  has  shown  me  to  be  unsuitable  for  class 
stories. 

I.  Stories  dealing  with  analysis  of  motive  and 
feeling.  This  warning  is  specially  necessary  today, 
because  this  is,  above  all,  an  age  of  introspection 
and  analysis.  We  have  only  to  glance  at  the  princi- 
pal novels  and  plays  during  the  last  quarter  of  a 
century,  more  especially  during  the  last  ten  years,  to 
see  how  this  spirit  has  crept  into  our  literature  and 
life. 

Now,  this  tendency  to  analyze  is  obviously  more 
dangerous  for  children  than  for  adults,  because, 
from  lack  of  experience  and  knowledge  of  psychol- 
ogy, the  child's  analysis  is  incomplete.  It  cannot  see 
all  the  causes  of  the  action,  nor  can  it  make  that 
philosophical  allowance  for  mood  which  brings  the 
adult  to  truer  conclusions. 

Therefore,  we  should  discourage  the  child  who 
shows  a  tendency  to  analyze  too  closely  the  motives 
of  its  action,  and  refrain  from  presenting  to  them 
in  our  stories  any  example  which  might  encourage 
them  to  persist  in  this  course. 

I  remember,  on  one  occasion,  when  I  went  to  say 
good  night  to  a  little  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  I 
found  her  sitting  up  in  bed,  very  wide-awake.  Her 
eyes  were  shining,  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and 

44 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

when  I  asked  her  what  had  excited  her  so  much,  she 
said: 

"I  know  I  have  done  something  wrong  today,  but 
I  cannot  quite  remember  what  it  was." 

I  said:  "But,  Phyllis,  if  you  put  your  hand, 
which  is  really  quite  small,  in  front  of  your  eyes, 
you  could  not  see  the  shape  of  anything  else,  how- 
ever large  it  might  be.  Now,  what  you  have  done 
today  appears  very  large  because  it  is  so  close,  but 
when  it  is  a  little  further  off,  you  will  be  able  to  see 
better  and  know  more  about  it.  So  let  us  w^ait  till 
tomorrow  morning." 

I  am  happy  to  say  that  she  took  my  advice.  She 
was  soon  fast  asleep,  and  the  next  morning  she  had 
forgotten  the  wrong  over  which  she  had  been  un- 
healthily brooding  the  night  before. 

2.  Stories  dealing  too  much  with  sarcasm  and 
satire.  These  are  weapons  which  are  too  sharply 
polished,  and  therefore  too  dangerous,  to  place  in 
the  hands  of  children.  For  here  again,  as  in  the 
case  of  analysis,  they  can  only  have  a  very  incom- 
plete conception  of  the  case.  They  do  not  know  the 
real  cause  which  produces  the  apparently  ridiculous 
situation.  It  is  experience  and  knowledge  which 
lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  pathos  and  sadness  which 
often  underlie  the  ridiculous  appearance,  and  it  is 
only  the  abnormally  gifted  child  or  grown-up  per- 
son who  discovers  this  by  instinct.  It  takes  a  life- 
time to  arrive  at  the  position  described  in  Sterne's 

45 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

words :  "I  would  not  have  let  fallen  an  unseason- 
able pleasantry  in  the  venerable  presence  of  misery 
to  be  entitled  to  all  the  wit  which  Rabelais  has  ever 
scattered." 

I  will  hasten  to  add  that  I  should  not  wish  chil- 
dren to  have  their  sympathy  too  much  drawn  out, 
or  their  emotions  kindled  too  much  to  pity,  because 
this  would  be  neither  healthy  nor  helpful  to  them- 
selves or  others.  I  only  want  to  protect  children 
from  the  dangerous  critical  attitude  induced  by  the 
use  of  satire  which  sacrifices  too  much  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  trust  and  belief  in  human  beings  which 
ought  to  be  an  essential  of  childlife.  By  indulging 
in  satire,  the  sense  of  kindness  in  children  would 
become  perverted,  their  sympathy  cramped,  and 
they  themselves  would  be  old  before  their  time.  We 
have  an  excellent  example  of  this  in  Hans  Christian 
Andersen's  "Snow  Queen." 

When  Kay  gets  the  piece  of  broken  mirror  into 
his  eye,  he  no  longer  sees  the  world  from  the  normal 
child's  point  of  view;  he  can  no  longer  see  anything 
but  the  foibles  of  those  about  him,  a  condition  usu- 
ally reached  only  by  a  course  of  pessimistic  experi- 
ence. 

Andersen  sums  up  the  unnatural  point  of  view  in 
these  words :  "When  Kay  tried  to  repeat  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  he  could  only  remember  the  multiplication- 
table."  Now,  without  taking  these  words  in  any 
literal   sense,   we   can   admit   that  they  represent 

46 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

the  development  of  the  head  at  the  expense  of  the 
heart. 

An  example  of  this  kind  of  story  to  avoid  is  An- 
dersen's "Story  of  the  Butterfly."  The  bitterness 
of  the  Anemones,  the  sentimentality  of  the  Violets, 
the  schoolgirlishness  of  the  Snowdrops,  the  domes- 
ticity of  the  Sweetpeas — all  this  tickles  the  palate  of 
the  adult,  but  does  not  belong  to  the  plane  of  the 
normal  child.  Again,  I  repeat,  that  the  unusual  child 
may  take  all  this  in  and  even  preserve  his  kindly 
attitude  towards  the  world,  but  it  is  dangerous  at- 
mosphere for  the  ordinary  child. 

3.  Stories  of  a  sentimental  character.  Strange 
to  say,  this  element  of  sentimentality  appeals  more 
to  the  young  teachers  than  to  the  children  them- 
selves. It  is  difficult  to  define  the  difference  be- 
tween real  sentiment  and  sentimentality,  but  the 
healthy  normal  boy  or  girl  of,  let  us  say,  ten  or 
eleven  years  old,  seems  to  feel  it  unconsciously, 
though  the  distinction  is  not  so  clear  a  few  years 
later. 

Mrs.  Elisabeth  McCracken  contributed  an  excel- 
lent article  some  years  ago  to  the  Outlook  on  the 
subject  of  literature  for  the  young,  in  which  we  find 
a  good  illustration  of  this  power  of  discrimination 
on  the  part  of  a  child. 

A  young  teacher  was  telling  her  pupils  the  story 
of  the  emotional  lady  who,  to  put  her  lover  to  the 
test,  bade  him  pick  up  the  glove  which  she  had 

47 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

thrown  down  into  the  arena  between  the  tiger  and 
the  Hon.  The  lover  does  her  bidding  in  order  to 
vindicate  his  character  as  a  brave  knight.  One  boy 
after  hearing  the  story  at  once  states  his  contempt 
for  the  knight's  acquiescence,  which  he  declares  to 
be  unworthy. 

*'But,"  says  the  teacher,  "you  see  he  really  did  it 
to  show  the  lady  how  foolish  she  was."  The  an- 
swer of  the  boy  sums  up  what  I  have  been  trying  to 
show :  "There  was  no  sense  in  his  being  sillier  than 
she  was,  to  show  her  she  was  silly." 

If  the  boy  had  stopped  there,  we  might  have  con- 
cluded that  he  was  lacking  in  imagination  or  ro- 
mance, but  his  next  remark  proves  what  a  balanced 
and  discriminating  person  he  was,  for  he  added: 
"Now,  if  she  had  fallen  in,  and  he  had  leapt  after 
her  to  rescue  her,  that  would  have  been  splendid 
and  of  some  use."  Given  the  character  of  the  lady, 
we  might,  as  adults,  question  the  last  part  of  the 
boy's  statement,  but  this  is  pure  cynicism  and  for- 
tunately does  not  enter  into  the  child's  calculations. 

In  my  own  personal  experience,  and  I  have  told 
this  story  often  in  the  German  ballad  form  to  girls  of 
ten  and  twelve  in  the  high  schools  in  England,  I  have 
never  found  one  girl  who  sympathized  with  the  lady 
or  who  failed  to  appreciate  the  poetic  justice  meted 
out  to  her  in  the  end  by  the  dignified  renunciation 
of  the  knight. 

Chesterton  defines  sentimentality  as  "a  tame,  cold, 
48 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

or  small  and  inadequate  manner  of  speaking  about 
certain  matters  which  demand  very  large  and  beau- 
tiful expression/' 

I  would  strongly  urge  upon  young  teachers  to  re- 
vise, by  this  definition,  some  of  the  stories  they  have 
included  in  their  repertories,  and  see  whether  they 
would  stand  the  test  or  not. 

4.  Stories  containing  strong  sensational  episodes. 
The  danger  of  this  kind  of  story  is  all  the  greater 
because  many  children  delight  in  it  and  some  crave 
for  it  in  the  abstract,  but  fear  it  in  the  concrete.^ 

An  affectionate  aunt,  on  one  occasion,  anxious 
to  curry  favor  with  a  four-year-old  nephew,  was 
taxing  her  imagination  to  find  a  story  suitable  for 
his  tender  years.  She  was  greatly  startled  when  he 
suddenly  said,  in  a  most  imperative  tone :  **Tell  me 
the  story  of  a  bear  eating  a  small  boy."  This  was 
so  remote  from  her  own  choice  of  subject  that  she 
hesitated  at  first,  but  coming  to  the  conclusion  that 
as  the  child  had  chosen  the  situation  he  would  feel 
no  terror  in  the  working  up  of  its  details,  she  began 
a  most  thrilling  and  blood-curdling  story,  leading  up 
to  the  final  catastrophe.  But  just  as  she  had  reached 
the  great  dramatic  moment,  the  child  raised  his 
hands  in  terror  and  said :  "Oh !  Auntie,  don't  let  the 
bear  really  eat  the  boy!" 

"Don't  you  know,"  said  an  impatient  boy  who  had 

^  One  child's  favorite  book  bore  the  exciting  title  of  "Birth, 
Life  and  Death  of  Crazy  Jane." 

49 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

been  listening  to  a  mild  adventure  story  considered 
suitable  to  his  years,  *'that  I  don't  take  any  interest 
in  the  story  until  the  decks  are  dripping  with  gore?" 
Here  we  have  no  opportunity  of  deciding  whether  or 
not  the  actual  description  demanded  would  be  more 
alarming  than  the  listener  had  realized.    - 

Here  is  a  poem  of  James  Stephens,  showing  a 
child's  taste  for  sensational  things : 

A  man  was  sitting  underneath  a  tree 

Outside  the  village,  and  he  asked  me 

What  name  was  upon  this  place,  and  said  he 

Was  never  here  before.    He  told  a 

Lot  of  stories  to  me  too.    His  nose  was  flat. 

I  asked  him  how  it  happened,  and  he  said, 

The  first  mate  of  the  Mary  Ann  done  that 

With  a  marling-spike  one  day,  but  he  was  dead. 

And  a  jolly  job  too,  but  he'd  have  gone  a  long  way  to 

have  killed  him. 
A  gold  ring  in  one  ear,  and  the  other  was  bit  off  by  a 

crocodile,  bedad, 
That's  what  he  said :    He  taught  me  how  to  chew. 
He  was  a  real  nice  man.     He  liked  me  too. 

The  taste  that  is  fed  by  the  sensational  contents  of 
the  newspapers  and  the  dramatic  excitement  of 
street  life,  and  some  of  the  lurid  representations  of 
the  cinematograph,  is  so  much  stimulated  that  the 
interest  in  normal  stories  is  difficult  to  rouse.  I  will 
not  here  dwell  on  the  deleterious  effects  of  over- 
dramatic  stimulation,  which  has  been  known  to  lead 
to  crime,  since  I  am  keener  to  prevent  the  telling  of 

50 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

too  many  sensational  stories  than  to  suggest  a  cure 
when  the  mischief  is  done. 

Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  has  said : 

"Let  us  be  realistic,  by  all  means,  but  beware,  O 
story-teller,  of  being  too  realistic.  Avoid  the  shud- 
dering tale  of  'the  wicked  boy  who  stoned  the 
birds,'  lest  some  hearer  should  be  inspired  to  try  the 
dreadful  experiment  and  see  if  it  really  does  kill." 

I  must  emphasize  the  fact,  however,  that  it  is 
only  the  excess  of  this  dramatic  element  which  I 
deplore.  A  certain  amount  of  excitement  is  neces- 
sary, but  this  question  belongs  to  the  positive  side 
of  the  subject,  and  I  shall  deal  with  it  later  on. 

5.  Stories  presenting  matters  quite  outside  the 
plane  of  a  child's  interests,  unless  they  are  wrapped 
in  mystery.  Experience  with  children  ought  to  teach 
us  to  avoid  stories  which  contain  too  much  allusion 
to  matters  of  which  the  hearers  are  entirely  igno- 
rant. But,  judging  from  the  written  stories  of 
today,  supposed  to  be  for  children,  it  is  still  a  mat- 
ter of  difficulty  to  realize  that  this  form  of  allusion 
to  "foreign"  matters,  or  making  a  joke,  the  ap- 
preciation of  which  depends  solely  on  a  special  and 
"inside"  knowledge,  is  always  bewildering  and  fatal 
to  sustained  dramatic  interest. 

It  is  a  matter  of  intense  regret  that  so  very  few 
people  have  sufficiently  clear  remembrance  of  their 
own  childhood  to  help  them  to  understand  the  taste 
and  point  of  view  of  the  normal  child.     There  is  a 

51 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

passage  in  the  "Brownies,"  by  Mrs.  Ewing,  which 
illustrates  the  confusion  created  in  the  child  mind 
by  a  facetious  allusion  in  a  dramatic  moment  which 
needed  a  more  direct  treatment.  When  the  nursery 
toys  have  all  gone  astray,  one  little^  child  exclaims 
joyfully : 

**Why,  the  old  Rocking-Horse's  nose  has  turned 
up  in  the  oven!" 

"It  couldn't,"  remarks  a  tiresome,  facetious  doc- 
tor, far  more  anxious  to  be  funny  than  to  sympathize 
with  the  joy  of  the  child,  "it  was  the  purest  Grecian, 
modeled  from  the  Elgin  marbles." 

Now,  for  grown-up  people  this  is  an  excellent 
joke,  but  for  a  child  who  has  not  yet  become  ac- 
quainted with  these  Grecian  masterpieces,  the  whole 
remark  is  pointless  and  hampering.^ 

6.  Stories  which  appeal  to  fear  or  priggishness. 
This  is  a  class  of  story  which  scarcely  counts  today 
and  against  which  the  teacher  does  not  need  a  warn- 
ing, but  I  wish  to  make  a  passing  allusion  to  these 
stories,  partly  to  round  off  my  subject  and  partly  to 
show  that  we  have  made  some  improvement  in 
choice  of  subject. 

When  I  study  the  evolution  of  the  story  from  the 
crude  recitals  offered  to  our  children  within  the  last 
hundred  years,  I  feel  that,  though  our  progress  may 

^This  does  not  imply  that  the  child  would  not  appreciate 
in  the  right  context  the  thrilling  and  romantic  story  in  con- 
nection with  the  finding  of  the  Elgin  marbles. 

52 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

be  slow,  it  is  real  and  sure.  One  has  only  to  take 
some  examples  from  the  Chap  Books  of  the  begin- 
ning of  last  century  to  realize  the  difference  of  ap- 
peal. Everything  offered  then  was  either  an  appeal 
to  fear  or  to  priggishness,  and  one  wonders  how  it 
is  that  our  grandparents  and  their  parents  ever  re- 
covered from  the  effects  of  such  stories  as  were  of- 
fered to  them.  But  there  is  the  consoling  thought 
that  no  lasting  impression  was  made  upon  them, 
such  as  I  believe  may  be  possible  by  the  right  kind  of 
story. 

I  offer  a  few  examples  of  the  old  type  of  story : 

Here  is  an  encouraging  address  offered  to  chil- 
dren by  a  certain  Mr.  Jane  way  about  the  year  1828 : 

"Dare  you  do  anything  which  your  parents  for- 
bid you,  and  neglect  to  do  what  they  command? 
Dare  you  to  run  up  and  down  on  the  Lord's  Day, 
or  do  you  keep  in  to  read  your  book^  and  learn  what 
your  good  parents  command?" 

Such  an  address  would  have  almost  tempted  chil- 
dren to  envy  the  lot  of  orphans,  except  that  the 
guardians  and  less  close  relations  might  have  been 
equally,  if  not  more,  severe. 

From  "The  Curious  Girl,"  published  about  1809: 

"Oh!  papa,  I  hope  you  will  have  no  reason  to  be 
dissatisfied  with  me,  for  I  love  my  studies  very 
much,  and  I  am  never  so  happy  at  my  play  as  when  I 
have  been  assiduous  at  my  lessons  all  day." 

"Adolphus :  How  strange  it  is,  papa,  you  should 
53 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

believe  it  possible  for  me  to  act  so  like  a  child,  now 
that  I  am  twelve  years  old !" 

Here  is  a  specimen  taken  from  a  Chap  Book  about 
1825: 

Edward  refuses  hot  bread  at  breakfast.  His  hos- 
tess asks  whether  he  likes  it. 

"Yes,  I  am  extremely  fond  of  it." 

"Why  did  you  refuse  it?" 

"Because  I  know  that  my  papa  does  not  approve  of  my 
eating  it.  Am  I  to  disobey  a  Father  and  Mother  I  love 
so  well,  and  forget  my  duty,  because  they  are  a  long  way 
oflF?  I  would  not  touch  the  cake,  were  I  sure  nobody 
could  see  me.  I  myself  should  know  it,  and  that  would 
be  sufficient." 

"Nobly  repHed !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  C.  "Act  always  thus, 
and  you  must  be  happy,  for  although  the  whole  world 
should  refuse  the  praise  that  is  due,  you  must  enjoy  the 
approbation  of  your  conscience,  which  is  beyond  any- 
thing else." 

Here  is  a  quotation  of  the  same  kind  from  Mrs. 
Sherwood : 

Tender-souled  little  creatures,  desolated  by  a  sense  of 
sin,  if  they  did  but  eat  a  spoonful  of  cupboard  jam  with- 
out Mamma's  express  permission.  .  .  .  Would  a  modern 
Lucy,  jealous  of  her  sister  Emily's  doll,  break  out  thus 
easily  into  tearful  apology  for  her  guilt:  'I  know  it  is 
wicked  in  me  to  be  sorry  that  Emily  is  happy,  but  I  feel 
that  I  cannot  help  it'?  And  would  a  modern  mother  re- 
tort with  heartfelt  joy:  'My  dear  child,  I  am  glad  you 
have  confessed.  Now  I  shall  tell  you  why  you  feel  this 
wicked  sorrow'? — proceeding  to  an  account  of  the  de- 

54 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

pravity  of  human  nature  so  unredeemed  by  comfort  for 
a  childish  mind  of  common  intelligence  that  one  can 
scarcely  imagine  the  interview  ending  in  anything  less 
tragic  than  a  fit  pf  juvenile  hysteria. 

Description  of  a  good  boy : 

A  good  boy  is  dutiful  to  his  Father  and  Mother, 
obedient  to  his  master  and  loving  to'his  playfellows.  He 
is  diligent  in  learning  his  book  and  takes  a  pleasure  in 
improving  himself  in  everything  that  is  worthy  of  praise. 
He  rises  early  in  the  morning,  makes  himself  clean  and 
decent,  and  says  his  prayers.  He  loves  to  hear  good  ad- 
vice, 4s  thankful  to  those  who  give  it  and  always  follows 
it.  He  never  swears  ^  or  calls  names  or  uses  ill  words 
to  companions.  He  is  never  peevish  and  fretful,  always 
cheerful  and  good-tempered. 

7.  Stories  of  exaggerated  and  coarse  fun.  In 
the  chapter  on  the  positive  side  of  this  subject 
I  shall  speak  more  in  detail  of  the  educational  value 
of  robust  and  virile  representation  of  fun  and  of 
sheer  nonsense,  but  as  a  preparation  to  these  state- 
ments, I  should  like  to  strike  a  note  of  warning 
against  the  element  of  exaggerated  and  coarse  fun 
being  encouraged  in  our  school  stories,  partly,  be- 
cause of  the  lack  of  humor  in  such  presentations  (a 
natural  product  of  stifling  imagination)  and  partly, 
because  the  strain  of  the  abnormal  has  the  same 

*One  is  almost  inclined  to  prefer  Marjorie  Fleming's  little 
innocent  oaths. 

"But  she  was  more  than  usual  calm, 
She  did  not  give  a  single  dam." 

55 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

effect  as  the  too  frequent  use  of  the  melodramatic. 

In  an  article  in  Macmillans  Magazine,  December, 
1869,  Miss  Yonge  writes: 

"A  taste  for  buffoonery  is  much  to  be  discour- 
aged, an  exclusive  taste  for  extravagance  most  un- 
wholesome and  even  perverting.  It  becomes  de- 
structive of  reverence  and  soon  degenerates  into 
coarseness.  It  permits  nothing  poetical  or  imagina- 
tive, nothing  sweet  or  pathetic  to  exist,  and  there 
is  a  certain  self-satisfaction  and  superiority  in  mak- 
ing game  of  what  others  regard  with  enthusiasm 
and  sentiment  which  absolutely  bars  the  way  against 
a  higher  or  softer  tone." 

Although  these  words  were  written  nearly  half  a 
century  ago,  they  are  so  specially  applicable  today 
that  they  seem  quite  ''up-to-date."  Indeed,  I  think 
they  will  hold  equally  good  fifty  years  hence. 

In  spite  of  a  strong  taste  on  the  part  of  children 
for  what  is  ugly  and  brutal,  I  am  sure  that  we  ought 
to  eliminate  this  element  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  school  stories,  especially  among  poor  children. 
Not  because  I  think  children  should  be  protected 
from  all  knowledge  of  evil,  but  because  so  much  of 
this  knowledge  comes  into  their  life  outside  school 
that  we  can  well  afford  to  ignore  it  during  school 
hours.  At  the  same  time,  however,  as  I  shall  show 
by  example  when  I  come  to  the  positive  side,  it 
would  be  well  to  show  children  by  story  illustration 
the  difference  between  brutal  ugliness  without  any- 

56 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

thing  to  redeem  it  and  surface  ugliness,  which  may 
be  only  a  veil  over  the  beauty  that  lies  underneath. 
It  might  be  possible,  for  instance,  to  show  children 
the  difference  between  the  real  ugliness  of  a  brutal 
story  of  crime  and  an  illustration  of  it  in  the  sensa- 
tional papers,  and  the  apparent  ugliness  in  the 
priest's  face  of  the  *'Laocoon"  group,  because  of 
the  motive  of  courage  and  endurance  behind  the  suf- 
fering. ,  Many  stories  in  everyday  life  could  be 
found  to  illustrate  this. 

8.  Stories  of  infant  piety  and  death-bed  scenes. 
The  stories  for  children  forty  years  ago  contained 
much  of  this  element,  and  the  following  examples 
will  illustrate  this  point : 

Notes  from  poems  written  by  a  child  between  six 
and  eight  years  of  age,  by  name  Philip  Freeman, 
afterwards  Archdeacon  of  Exeter: 

Poor  Robin,  thou  canst  fly  no  more, 

Thy  joys  and  sorrows  all  are  o'er. 

Through  Life's  tempestuous  storms  thou'st  trod, 

But  now  art  sunk  beneath  the  sod. 

Here  lost  and  gone  poor  Robin  lies, 

He  trembles,  lingers,  falls  and  dies. 

He's  gone,  he's  gone,  forever  lost, 

No  more  of  him  they  now*  can  boast. 

Poor  Robin's  dangers  all  are  past, 

He  struggled  to  the  very  last. 

Perhaps  he  spent  a  happy  Life, 

Without  much  struggle  and  much  strife.^ 

^  Published    by   John    Loder,    bookseller,    Woodbridge,    in 
1829. 

57 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  prolonged  gloom  of  the  main  theme  is  some- 
what lightened  by  the  speculative  optimism  of  the 
last  verse. 

Life,  transient  Life,  is  but  a  dream, 
Like  Sleep  which  short  doth  lengthened  seem 
Till  dawn  of  day,  when  the  bird's  lay 
Doth  charm  the  soul's  first  peeping  gleam. 

Then  farewell  to  the  parting  year. 
Another's  come  to  Nature  dear. 
In  every  place,  thy  brightening  face 
Does  welcome  winter's  snowy  drear. 

Alas !  our  time  is  much  mis-spent. 
Then  we  must  haste  and  now  repent. 
We  have  a  book  in  which  to  look, 
For  we  on  Wisdom  should  be  bent. 

Should  God,  the  Almighty,  King  of  all. 
Before  His  judgment-seat  now  call 
Us  to  that  place  of  Joy  and  Grace 
Prepared  for  us  since  Adam's  fall. 

I  think  there  is  no  doubt  that  we  have  made  con- 
siderable progress  in  this  matter.  Not  only  do  we 
refrain  from  telling  these  highly  moral  (sic)  stories 
but  we  have  reached  the  point  of  parodying  them,  in 
sign  of  ridicule,  as,  for  instance,  in  such  writing  as 
Belloc's  "Cautionary  Tales."  These  would  be  a 
trifle  too  grim  for  a  timid  child,  but  excellent  fun 
for  adults. 

58 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

It  should  be  our  study  today  to  prove  to  children 
that  the  immediate  importance  to  them  is  not  to 
think  of  dying-  and  going  to  Heaven,  but  of  living 
and — shall  we  say? — of  going  to  college,  which  is  a 
far  better  preparation  for  the  life  to  come  than  the 
morbid  dwelling  upon  the  possibility  of  an  early 
death. 

In  an  article  signed  "Muriel  Harris,"  I  think, 
from  a  copy  of  the  Tribune,  appeared  a  delightful 
article  on  Sunday  books,  from  which  I  quote  the 
following : 

"All  very  good  little  children  died  young  in  the 
story-books,  so  that  unusual  goodness  must  have 
been  the  source  of  considerable  anxiety  to  affection- 
ate parents.  I  came  across  a  little  old  book  the  other 
day  called  'Examples  for  Youth.'  On  the  yellow 
fly-leaf  was  written,  in  childish,  carefully-sloping 
hand :  'Presented  to  Mary  Palmer  Junior,  by  her 
sister,  to  be  read  on  Sundays,'  and  was  dated  1828. 
The  accounts  are  taken  from  a  work  on  Tiety  Pro- 
moted,' and  all  of  them  begin  with  unusual  piety  in 
early  youth  and  end  with  the  death-bed  of  the  little 
paragon,  and  his  or  her  dying  words." 

9.  Stories  containing  a  mixture  of  fairy  tale  and 
science.  By  this  combination  one  loses  what  is  es- 
sential to  each,  namely,  the  fantastic  on  the  one  side, 
and  accuracy  on  the  other.  The  true  fairy  tale 
should  be  unhampered  by  any  compromise  of  prob- 
ability even;  the  scientific  representation  should  be 

i9 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

sufificiently  marvelous  along  its  own  lines  to  need 
no  supernatural  aid.  Both  appeal  to  the  imagination 
in  different  ways. 

As  an  exception  to  this  kind  of  mixture,  I  should 
quote  "The  Honey  Bee,  and  Other  Stories,"  trans- 
lated from  the  Danish  of  Evald  by  C.  G.  Moore 
Smith.  There  is  a  certain  robustness  in  these  stor- 
ies dealing  with  the  inexorable  laws  of  Nature. 
Some  of  them  will  appear  hard  to  the  child  but  they 
will  be  of  interest  to  all  teachers. 

Perhaps  the  worst  element  in  the  choice  of  stories 
is  that  which  insists  upon  the  moral  detaching  itself 
and  explaining  the  story.  In  "Alice  in  Wonder- 
land" the  Duchess  says,  "  *And  the  moral  of  that  is: 
Take  care  of  the  sense  and  the  sounds  will  take  care 
of  themselves.*  *How  fond  she  is  of  finding  morals 
in  things,'  thought  Alice  to  herself."  (This  gives 
the  point  of  view  of  the  child.) 

The  following  is  a  case  in  point,  found  in  a  rare 
old  print  in  the  British  Museum : 

Jane  S.  came  home  with  her  clothes  soiled  and  hands 
badly  torn.    "Where  have  you  been?"  asked  her  mother. 

"I  fell  down  the  bank  near  the  mill,"  said  Jane,  "and 
I  should  have  been  drowned,  if  Mr.  M.  had  not  seen  me 
and  pulled  me  out." 

"Why  did  you  go  so  near  the  edge  of  the  brink?" 

"There  was  a  pretty  flower  there  that  I  wanted,  and 
I  only  meant  to  take  one  step,  but  I  slipped  and  fell 
down." 

Moral:  Young  people  often  take  but  one  step  in  sinful 
60 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

indulgence  [Poor  Jane-!],  but  they  fall  into  soul-destroy- 
ing sins.  There  is  a  sinful  pleasure  which  they  wish  to 
enjoy.  They  can  do  it  by  a  single  act  of  sin.  [The  hein- 
ous act  of  picking  a  flower!]  They  do  it;  but  that  act 
leads  to  another,  and  they  fall  into  the  Gulf  of  Perdition, 
unless  God  interposes. 

Now,  quite  apart  from  the  folly  of  this  story  we 
must  condemil  it  on  moral  grounds.  Could  we 
imagine  a  lower  standard  of  a  Deity  than  that  pre- 
sented here  to  the  child  ? 

Today  the  teacher  would  commend  Jane  for  a 
laudable  interest  in  botany,  but  might  add  a  word 
of  caution  about  choosing  inclined  planes  in  the  close 
neighborhood  of  a  body  of  running  water  as  a 
hunting  ground  for  specimens  and  a  popular,  lucid 
explanation  of  the  inexorable  law  of  gravity. 

Here  we  have  an  instance  of  applying  a  moral 
when  we  have  finished  our  story,  but  there  are  many 
stories  where  nothing  is  left  to  chance  in  this  mat- 
ter and  where  there  is  no  means  for  the  child  to  use 
ingenuity  or  imagination  in  making  out  the  meaning 
for  himself. 

Henry  Morley  has  condemned  the  use  of  this 
method  as  applied  to  fairy  stories.  He  says :  "Mor- 
alizing in  a  fairy  story  is  like  the  snoring  of  Bottom 
in  Titania's  lap.'* 

But  I  think  this  applies  to  all  stories,  and  most 
especially  to  those  by  which  we  do  wish  to  teach 
something. 

6i 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

John  Burroughs  says  in  his  article,  "Thou  Shalt 
Not  Preach'' :  ^ 

"Didactic  fiction  can  never  rank  high.  Thou  shalt 
not  preach  or  teach ;  thou  shalt  portray  and  create, 
and  have  ends  as  universal  as  nature.  .  .  .  What 
Art  demands  is  that  the  artist's  personal  convictions 
and  notions,  his  likes  and  dislikes,  do  not  obtrude 
themselves  at  all;  that  good  and  evil  stand  judged 
in  his  work  by  the  logic  of  events,  as  they  do  in  na- 
ture, and  not  by  any  special  pleading  on  his  part. 
He  does  not  hold  a  brief  for  either  side;  he  exem- 
plifies the  working  of  the  creative  energy.  .  .  .  The 
great  artist  works  in  and  through  and  from  moral 
ideas;  his  works  are  indirectly  a  criticism  of  life. 
He  is  moral  without  having  a  moral.  The  moment 
a  moral  obtrudes  itself,  that  moment  he  begins  to 
fall  from  grace  as  an  artist.  .  .  .  The  great  distinc- 
tion of  Art  is  that  it  aims  to  see  life  steadily  and  to 
see  it  whole.  ...  It  affords  the  one  point  of  view 
whence  the  world  appears  harmonious  and  com- 
plete.^' 

It  would  seem,  then,  from  this  passage,  that  it  is 
of  moral  importance  to  put  things  dramatically. 

In  Froebel's  "Mother  Play"  he  demonstrates  the 
educational  value  of  stories,  emphasizing  that  their 
highest  use  consists  in  their  ability  to  enable  the 
child,  through  suggestion^  to  form  a  pure  and  noble 
idea  of  what  a  man  may  be  or  do.     The  sensitive- 

*  From  "Literary  Values." 

62 


ELEMENTS  TO  AVOID  IN  MATERIAL 

ness  of  a  child's  mind  is  offended  if  the  moral  is 
forced  upon  him,  but  if  he  absorbs  it  unconsciously, 
he  has  received  its  influence  for  all  time. 

To  me  the  idea  of  pointing  out  the  moral  of  the 
story  has  always  seemed  as  futile  as  tying  a  flower 
on  to  a  stalk  instead  of  letting  the  flower  grow  out 
of  the  stalk,  as  Nature  has  intended.  In  the  first 
case,  the  flower,  showy  and  bright  for  the  moment, 
soon  fades  away.  In  the  second  instance,  it  devel- 
ops slowly,  coming  to  perfection  in  fullness  of  time 
because  of  the  life  within. 

Lastly,  the  element  to  avoid  is  that  which  rouses 
emotions  which  cannot  be  translated  into  action. 

Mr.  Earl  Barnes,  to  whom  all  teachers  owe  a  debt 
of  gratitude  for  the  inspiration  of  his  educational 
views,  insists  strongly  on  this  point.  The  sole  effect 
of  such  stories  is  to  produce  a  form  of  hysteria,  for- 
tunately short-lived,  but  a  waste  of  force  which 
might  be  directed  into  a  better  channel.^  Such 
stories  are  so  easy  to  recognize  that  it  would  be  use- 
less to  make  a  formal  list,  but  I  make  further  al- 
lusion to  them,  in  dealing  with  stories  from  the  lives 
of  the  saints. 

These,  then,  are  the  main  elements  to  avoid  in  the 
selection  of  material  suitable  for  normal  children. 

^A  story  is  told  of  Confucius,  who,  having  attended  a 
funeral,  presented  his  horse  to  the  chief  mourner.  When 
asked  why  he  bestowed  this  gift,  he  replied:  "I  wept  with 
the  man,  so  I  felt  I  ought  to  do  something  for  him." 

63 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Much  might  be  added  in  the  way  of  detail,  and  the 
special  tendency  of  the  day  may  make  it  necessary 
to  avoid  one  class  of  story  more  than  another,  but 
this  care  belongs  to  another  generation  of  teachers 
and  parents. 


CHAPTER  V 
ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  CHOICE  OF  MATERIAL 

In  his  "Choice  of  Books,"  Frederic  Harrison  has 
said :  "The  most  useful  help  to  reading  is  to  know 
what  we  shall  not  read,  what  we  shall  keep  from  that 
small,  cleared  spot  in  the  overgrown  jungle  of  in- 
formation which  we  can  call  our  ordered  patch  of 
fruit-bearing  knowledge." 

Now,  the  same  statement  applies  to  our  stories, 
and,  having  busied  myself  during  the  last  chapter 
with  "clearing  my  small  spot"  by  cutting  away  a 
mass  of  unfruitful  growth,  I  am  now  going  to  sug- 
gest what  would  be  the  best  kind  of  seed  to  sow  in 
the  patch  which  I  have  "reclaimed  from  the  jungle." 

Again,  I  repeat,  I  have  no  wish  ^  be  dogmatic 
and  in  offering  suggestions  as  to  the  stories  to  be 
told,  I  am  catering  only  for  a  group  of  normal 
school  children.  My  list  of  subjects  does  not  pre- 
tend to  cover  the  whole  ground  of  children's  needs, 
and  just  as  I  exclude  the  abnormal  or  unusual  child 
from  the  scope  of  my  warning  in  subjects  to  avoid, 
so  do  I  also  exclude  that  child  from  the  limitation 
in  choice  of  subjects  to  be  sought,  because  you  can 

65 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

offer  almost  any  subject  to  the  unusual  child,  espe- 
cially if  you  stand  in  close  relation  to  him  and 
know  his  powers  of  apprehension.  In  this  matter, 
age  has  very  little  to  say ;  it  is  a  question  of  the  stage 
of  development. 

Experience  has  taught  me  that  for  the  group  of 
normal  children,  irrespective  of  age,  the  first  kind 
J  of  story  suitable  for  them  will  contain  an  appeal  to 
conditions  to  which  the  child  is  accustomed.  The 
reason  for  this  is  obvious :  the  child,  having  limited 
experience,  can  only  be  reached  by  this  experience, 
until  his  imagination  is  awakened  and  he  is  enabled 
to  grasp  through  this  faculty  what  he  has  not  actu- 
ally passed  through.  Before  this  awakening  has 
taken  place  he  enters  the  realm  of  fiction,  repre- 
sented in  the  story,  by  comparison  with  his  personal 
experience.  Every  story  and  every  point  in  the 
story  mean  more  as  that  experience  widens,  and  the 
interest  varies,  of  course,  with  temperament,  quick- 
ness of  perception,  power  of  visualizing  and  of 
concentration. 

In  "The  Marsh  King's  Daughter/'  Hans  Chris- 
tian Andersen  says : 

"The  storks  have  a  great  many  stories  which  they 
tell  their  little  ones,  all  about  the  bogs  and  marshes. 
They  suit  them  to  their  age  and  capacity.  The 
young  ones  are  quite  satisfied  with  krihhle,  krahhle, 
or  some  such  nonsense,  and  find  it  charming ;  but  the 
elder  ones  want  something  with  more  meaning." 

66 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

One  of  the  most  interesting  experiments  to  be 
made  in  connection  with  this  subject  is  to  tell  the 
same  story  at  intervals  of  a  year  or  six  months  to 
an  individual  child.^  The  different  incidents  in  the 
story  which  appeal  to  him  (and  one  must  watch 
it  closely,  to  be  sure  the  interest  is  real  and  not  arti- 
ficially stimulated  by  any  suggestion  on  one's  own 
part)  will  mark  his  mental  development  and  the 
gradual  awakening  of  his  imagination.  This  ex- 
periment is  a  very  delicate  one  and  will  not  be  in- 
fallible, because  children  are  secretive  and  the  ap- 
preciation is  often  simulated  (unconsciously)  pr 
concealed  through  shyness  or  want  of  articulation. 
But  it  is,  in  spite  of  this,  a  deeply  interesting  and 
helpful  experiment. 

To  take  a  concrete  example :  Let  us  suppose  the 
story  of  Andersen's  "Tin  Soldier"  told  to  a  child  of 
five  or  six  years.  At  the  first  recital,  the  point  which 
will  interest  the  child  most  will  be  the  setting  up  of 
the  tin  soldiers  on  the  table,  because  he  can  under- 
stand this  by  means  of  his  own  experience,  in  his 
own  nursery.  It  is  an  appeal  to  conditions  to  which 
he  is  accustomed  and  for  which  no  exercise  of  the 
imagination  is  needed,  unless  we  take  the  effect  of 
memory  to  be,  according  to  Queyrat,  retrospective 
imagination. 

The  next  incident  that  appeals  is  the  unfamiliar 

^  This  experiment  cannot  be  made  with  a  group  of  children 
for  obvious  reasons. 

67 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

behavior  of  the  toys,  but  still  in  familiar  surround- 
ings ;  that  is  to  say,  the  unusual  activities  are  carried 
on  in  the  safe  precincts  of  the  nursery — the  usual 
atmosphere  of  the  child. 
I  quote  from  the  text : 

Late  in  the  evening  the  other  soldiers  were  put  in  their 
box,  and  the  people  of  the  house  went  to  bed.  Now  was 
the  time  for  the  toys  to  play;  they  amused  themselves 
with  paying  visits,  fighting  battles  and  giving  balls.  The 
tin  soldiers  rustled  about  in  their  box,  for  they  wanted  to 
join  the  games,  but  they  could  not  get  the  lid  off.  The 
nut-crackers  turned  somersaults,  and  the  pencil  scribbled 
nonsense  on  the  slate. 

Now,  from  this  point  onwards  in  the  story,  the 
events  will  be  quite  outside  the  personal  experience 
of  the  child,  and  there  will  have  to  be  a  real  stretch 
of  imagination  to  appreciate  the  thrilling  and  blood- 
curdling adventures  of  the  little  tin  soldier,  namely, 
the  terrible  sailing  down  the  gutter  under  the  bridge, 
the  meeting  with  the  fierce  rat  who  demands  the 
soldier's  passport,  the  horrible  sensation  in  the  fish's 
body,  etc.  Last  of  all,  perhaps,  will  come  the  ap- 
preciation of  the  best  qualities  of  the  hero :  his  mod- 
esty, his  dignity,  his  reticence,  his  courage  and  his 
constancy.  He  seems  to  combine  all  the  qualities 
of  the  best  soldier  with  those  of  the  best  civilian, 
without  the  more  obvious  qualities  which  generally 
attract  first.  As  for  the  love  story,  we  must  ijot 
expect  any  child  to  see  its  tenderness  and  beauty, 

68 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

though  the  individual  child  may  intuitively  appre- 
ciate these  qualities,  but  it  is  not  what  we  wish  for 
or  work  for  at  this  period  of  child  life. 

This  method  could  be  applied  to  various  stories. 
I  have  chosen  the  "Tin  Soldier"  because  of  its 
dramatic  qualities  and  because  it  is  marked  off,  prob- 
ably quite  unconsciously  on  the  part  of  Andersen, 
into  periods  which  correspond  to  the  child's  develop- 
ment. 

In  Eugene  Field's  exquisite  little  poem  of  "The 
Dinkey  Bird,"  we  find  the  objects  familiar  to  the 
child  in  timisiial  places,  so  that  some  imagination  is 
needed  to  realize  that  "big  red  sugar-plums  are 
clinging  to  the  cliffs  beside  that  sea";  but  the  in- 
troduction of  the  fantastic  bird  and  the  soothing 
sound  of  the  amfalula  tree  are  new  and  delightful 
sensations,  quite  out  of  the  child's  personal  experi- 
ence. 

Another  such  instance  is  to  be  found  in  Mrs.  W. 
K.  Clifford's  story  of  "Master  Willie."  The  abnor- 
mal behavior  of  familiar  objects,  such  as  a  doll, 
leads  from  the  ordinary  routine  to  the  paths  of  ad- 
venture. This  story  is  to  be  found  in  a  little  book 
called  "Very  Short  Stories,"  a  most  interesting  col- 
lection for  teachers  and  children. 

We  now  come  to  the  second  element  we  should 
seek  in  material,  namely,  the  element  of  the  un- 
usual, which  we  have  already  anticipated  in  the  story 
of  the  "Tin  Soldier." 

69 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

This  element  is  necessary  in  response  to  the  de- 
mand of  the  child  who  expressed  the  needs  of  his 
fellow-playmates  when  he  said :  *'I  want  to  go  to 
the  place  where  the  shadows  are  real."  This  is  the 
true  definition  of  "faerie"  lands  and  is  the  first  sign 
of  real  mental  development  in  the  child  when  he  is 
np  longer  content  with  the  stories  of  his  own  little 
deeds  and  experiences,  when  his  ear  begins  to  ap- 
preciate sounds  different  from  the  words  in  his 
own  everyday  language,  and  when  he  begins  to 
separate  his  own  personality  from  the  action  of  the 
story. 

George  Goschen  says: 

"What  I  want  for  the  young  are  books  and  stories 
which  do  not  simply  deal  with  our  daily  life.  I  like 
the  fancy  even  of  little  children  to  have  some  larger 
food  than  images  of  their  own  little  lives,  and  I 
confess  I  am  sorry  for  the  children  whose  imagina- 
tions are  not  sometimes  stimulated  by  beautiful  fairy 
tales  which  carry  them  to  worlds  different  from 
those  in  which  their  future  will  be  passed.  ...  I 
hold  that  what  removes  them  more  or  less  from  their 
daily  life  is  better  than  what  reminds  them  of  it  at 
every  step."  ^ 

It  is  because  of  the  great  value  of  leading  chil- 
dren to  something  beyond  the  limited  circle  of  their 
own  lives  that  I  deplore  the  twaddling  boarding- 
school  stories  written  for  girls  and  the  artificially 
*  From  an  address  on  "The  Cultivation  of  the  Imagination." 

70 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

prepared  public  school  stories  for  boys.  Why  not 
give  them  the  dramatic  interest  of  a  larger  stage? 
No  account  of  a  cricket  match  or  a  football  triumph 
could  present  a  finer  appeal  to  boys  and  girls  than 
the  description  of  the  Peacestead  in  the  "Heroes  of 
Asgaard" : 

"This  was  the  playground  of  the  -^Esir,  where 
they  practiced  trials  of  skill  one  with  another  and 
held  tournaments  and  sham  fights.  These  last  were 
always  conducted  in  the  gentlest  and  most  honorable 
manner;  for  the  strongest  law  of  the  Peacestead 
was  that  no  angry  blow  should  be  struck  or  spiteful 
word  spoken  upon  the  sacred  field." 

For  my  part,  I  would  unhesitatingly  give  to  boys 
and  girls  an  element  of  strong  romance  in  the  stor- 
ies which  are  told  them  even  before  they  are  twelve. 

Miss  Sewell  says : 

"The  system  that  keeps  girls  in  the  schoolroom 
reading  simple  stories,  without  reading  Scott  and 
Shakespeare  and  Spenser,  and  then  hands  them  over 
to  the  unexplored  recesses  of  the  Circulating  Li- 
brary, has  been  shown  to  be  the  most  frivolizing 
that  can  be  devised."  She  sets  forth  as  the  result 
of  her  experience  that  a  good  novel,  especially  a 
romantic  one,  read  at  twelve  or  fourteen,  is  really  a 
beneficial  thing. 

At  present,  so  many  of  the  children  from  the  ele- 
mentary schools  get  their  first  idea  of  love,  if  one 
can  give  it  such  a  name,  from  vulgar  pictures  dis- 

71 


w 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

played  in  the  shop  windows  or  jokes  on  marriage, 
culled  from  the  lowest  type  of  paper,  or  the  proceed- 
ings of  a  divorce  court. 

What  an  antidote  to  such  representation  might  be 
found  in  the  stories  of  Hector  and  Andromache, 
Siegfried  and  Briinnehilde,  Dido  and  ^^neas,  Or- 
pheus and  Eurydice,  St.  Francis  and  St.  Clare ! 

One  of  the  strongest  elements  we  should  introduce 
into  our  stories  for  children  of  all  ages  is  that  which 
calls  forth  love  of  beauty.  And  the  beauty  should 
stand  out,  not  only  in  the  delineation  of  noble  quali- 
ties in  our  heroes  and  heroines,  but  in  the  beauty 
and  strength  of  language  and  form. 

In  this  latter  respect,  the  Bible  stories  are  of  such 
inestimable  value;  all  the  greater  because  a  child  is 
familiar  with  the  subject  and  the  stories  gain  fresh 
significance  from  the  spoken  or  winged  word  as 
compared  with  the  mere  reading.  As  to  whether 
we  should  keep  to  the  actual  text  is  a  matter  of  in- 
dividual experience.  Professor  R.  G.  Moulton, 
whose  interpretations  of  the  Bible  stories  are  so 
well  known  both  in  England  and  America,  does  not 
always  confine  himself  to  the  actual  text,  but  draws 
the  dramatic  elements  together,  rejecting  what 
seems  to  him  to  break  the  narrative,  but  introducing 
the  actual  language  where  it  is  the  most  eflfective. 
Those  who  have  heard  him  will  realize  the  success 
of  his  method. 

There  is  one  Bible  story  which  can  be  told  with 
72 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

scarcely  any  deviation  from  the  text,  if  only  a  few 
hints  are  given  beforehand,  and  that  is  the  story  of 
Nebuchadnezzar  and  the  Golden  Image.  Thus,  I 
think  it  wise,  if  the  children  are  to  succeed  in  par- 
tially visualizing  the  story,  that  they  should  have 
some  idea  of  the  dimensions  of  the  Golden  Image  as 
it  would  stand  out  in  a  vast  plain.  It  might  be  well 
to  compare  those  dimensions  with  some  building 
with  which  the  child  is  familiar.  In  London,  the 
matter  is  easy  as  the  height  will  compare,  roughly 
speaking,  with  Westminster  Abbey.  The  only 
change  in  the  text  I  should  adopt  is  to  avoid  the 
constant  enumeration  of  the  list  of  rulers  and  the 
musical  instruments.  In  doing  this,  I  am  aware 
that  I  am  sacrificing  something  of  beauty  in  the 
rhythm,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  for  narrative  pur- 
pose the  interest  is  not  broken.  The  first  time  the 
announcement  is  made,  that  is,  by  the  Herald,  it 
should  be  in  a  perfectly  loud,  clear  and  toneless  voice, 
such  as  you  would  naturally  use  when  shouting 
through  a  trumpet  to  a  vast  concourse  of  people 
scattered  over  a  wide  plain,  reserving  all  the  dra- 
matic tone  of  voice  for  the  passage  where  Nebuchad- 
nezzar is  making  the  announcement  to  the  three 
men  by  themselves*  I  can  remember  Professor 
Moulton  saying  that  all  the  dramatic  interest  of  the 
story  is  summed  up  in  the  words  "But  if  not  .  .  ." 
This  suggestion  is  a  very  helpful  one,  for  it  enables 
us  to  work  up  gradually  to  this  point,  and  then,  as 

73 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

it  were,  unwind ,  until  we  reach  the  words  of  Neb- 
uchadnezzar's dramatic  recantation. 

In  this  connection,  it  is  a  good  plan  occasionally 
during  the  story  hour  to  introduce  really  good  poetry 
which,  delivered  in  a  dramatic  manner  (far  re- 
moved, of  course,  from  the  melodramatic),  might 
give  children  their  first  love  of  beautiful  form  in 
verse.  And  I  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  wait  for 
this.  Even  the  normal  child  of  seven,  though  there 
is  nothing  arbitrary  in  the  suggestion  of  this  age, 
will  appreciate  the  effect,  if  only  on  the  ear,  of  beau- 
tiful lines  well  spoken.  Mahomet  has  said,  in  his 
teaching  advice:  ''Teach  your  children  poetry;  it 
opens  the  mind,  lends  grace  to  wisdom  and  makes 
heroic  virtues  hereditary." 

To  begin  with  the  youngest  children  of  all,  here 
is  a  poem  which  contains  a  thread  of  story,  just 
enough  to  give  a  human  interest : 

MILKING-TIME 

When  the  cows  come  home,  the  milk  is  coming; 

Honey's  made  when  the  bees  are  humming. 

Duck,  drake  on  the  rushy  lake, 

And  the  deer  live  safe  in  the  breezy  brake. 

And  timid,  funny,  pert  little  bunny 

Winks  his  nose,  and  sits  all  sunny. 

Christina  Rossetti. 

Now,  in  comparing  this  poem  with  some  of  the 
doggerel  verse  offered  to   small  children,   one  is 

74 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

struck  with  the  Hterary  superiority  in  the  choice  of 
words.  Here,  in  spite  of  the  simpHcity  of  the  poem, 
there  is  not  the  ordinary  Hmited  vocabulary,  nor  the 
forced  rhyme,  nor  the  appHcation  of  a  moral,  by 
which  the  artist  falls  from  grace. 

Again,  Eugene  Field's  "Hushaby  Lady,"  of  which 
the  language  is  most  simple,  yet  the  child  is  carried 
away  by  the  beauty  of  the  sound. 

I  remember  hearing  some  poetry  repeated  by  the 
children  in  one  of  the  elementary  schools  in  Shef- 
field which  made  me  feel  that  they  had  realized  ro- 
mantic possibilities  which  would  prevent  their  lives 
from  ever  becoming  quite  prosaic  again,  and  I  wish 
that  this  practice  were  more  usual.  There  is  little 
difficulty  with  the  children.  I  can  remember,  in  my 
own  experience  as  a  teacher  in  London,  making  the 
experiment  of  reading  or  repeating  passages  from 
Milton  and  Shakespeare  to  children  from  nine  to 
eleven  years  of  age,  and  the  enthusiastic  way  they 
responded  by  learning  those  passages  by  heart.  I 
have  taken  with  several  sets  of  children  such  pas- 
sages from  Milton  as  the  "Echo  Song,"  "Sabrina," 
"By  the  Rushy-fringed  Bank,"  ''Back,  Shepherds, 
Back,"  from  "Comus";  "May  Morning,"  "0de  to 
Shakespeare,"  "Samson,"  "On  Hjs  Blindness,"  etc. 
I  even  ventured  on  several  passages  from  "Paradise 
Lost,"  and  found  "Now  came  still  evening  on"  a 
particular  favorite  with  the  children. 

It  seemed  even  easier  to  interest  them  in  Shake- 

75 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

speare,  and  they  learned  quite  readily  and  easily 
many  passages  from  "As  You  Like  It,"  "The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,"  "Julius  C^sar,"  "Richard  H," 
"Henry  IV,"  and  "Henry  V." 

The  method  I  should  recommend  in  the  intro- 
duction of  both  poets  occasionally  into  the  story- 
hour  would  be  threefold.  First,  to  choose  passages 
which  appeal  for  beauty  of  sound  or  beauty  of  men- 
tal vision  called  up  by  those  sounds;  such  as  "Tell 
me  where  is  Fancy  bred,"  "Titania's  Lullaby," 
"How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank." 
Secondly,  passages  for  sheer  interest  of  content, 
such  as  the  Trial  Scene  from  "The  Merchant  of 
Venice,"  or  the  Forest  Scene  in  "As  You  Like  It." 
Thirdly,  for  dramatic  and  historical  interest,  such 
as,  "Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fates," 
the  whole  of  Mark  Antony's  speech,  and  the  scene 
with  Imogen  and  her  foster  brothers  in  the  Forest. 

It  may  not  be  wholly  out  of  place  to  add  here  that 
the  children  learned  and  repeated  these  passages 
themselves,  and  that  I  offered  them  the  same  advice 
as  I  do  to  all  story-tellers.  I  discussed  quite  openly 
with  them  the  method  I  considered  best,  trying  to 
make  them  see  that  simplicity  of  delivery  was  not 
only  the  most  beautiful  but  the  most  effective  means 
to  use  and,  by  the  end  of  a  few  months,  when  they 
had  been  allowed  to  experiment  and  express  them- 
selves, they  began  to  see  that  mere  ranting  was  not 
force  and  that  a  sense  of  reserve  power  is  infinitely 

76 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

more  impressive  and  inspiring  than  mere  external 
presentation. 

I  encouraged  them  to  criticize  each  other  for  the 
common  good,  and  sometimes  I  read  a  few  lines 
with  overemphasis  and  too  much  gesture,  which  they 
were  at  liberty  to  point  out  that  they  might  avoid 
the  same  error. 

Excellent  collections  of  poems  for  this  purpose  of 
narrative  are :  Mrs.  P.  A.  Barnett's  series  of  "Song 
and  Story,"  published  by  Adam  Black,  and  'The 
Posy  Ring,"  chosen  and  classified  by  Kate  Douglas 
Wiggin  and  Nora  Archibald  Smith,  published  by 
Doubleday.  For  older  children,  'The  Call  of  the 
Homeland,"  selected  and  arranged  by  Dr.  R.  P. 
Scott  and  Katharine  T.  Wallas,  published  by 
Blackie;  "A  Book  of  Famous  Verse,"  selected  by 
Agnes  Repplier,  published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin, 
and  "Golden  Numbers,"  chosen  and  classified  by 
Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  Archibald  Smith, 
published  by  Doubleday. 

I  think  it  is  well  to  have  a  goodly  number  of  stor- 
ies illustrating  the  importance  of  common-sense  and 
resourcefulness. 

For  this  reason,  I  consider  the  stories  treating  of 
the  ultimate  success  of  the  youngest  son  ^  very  ad- 
mirable for  the  purpose,  because  the  youngest  child 
who  begins  by  being  considered  inferior  to  the  older 


1 «' 


'The  House  in  the  Wood"  (Grimm),  is  another  instance 
of  triumph  for  the  youngest  child. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

ones  triumphs  in  the  end,  either  from  resourceful- 
ness or  from  common-sense  or  from  some  higher 
quality,  such  as  kindness  to  animals,  courage  in 
overcoming  difficulties,  etc.^ 

Thus,  we  have  the  story  of  Cinderella.  The  cynic 
might  imagine  that  it  was  the  diminutive  size  of  her 
foot  that  insured  her  success.  The  child  does  not 
realize  any  advantage  in  this,  but,  though  the  matter 
need  not  be  pressed,  the  story  leaves  us  with  the  im- 
pression that  Cinderella  had  been  patient  and  in- 
dustrious, and  forbearing  with  her  sisters.  We 
know  that  she  was  strictly  obedient  to  her  god- 
mother, and  in  order  to  be  this  she  makes  her 
dramatic  exit  from  the  ball  which  is  the  beginning 
of  her  triumph.  There  are  many  who  might  say 
that  these  qualities  do  not  meet  with  reward  in 
life  and  that  they  end  in  establishing  a  habit  of 
drudgery,  but,  after  all,  we  must  have  poetic  justice 
in  a  fairy  story,  occasionally,  at  any  rate,  even  if 
the  child  is  confused  by  the  apparent  contradiction. 
Such  a  story  is  ''Jasper  and  the  Hares."  Here, 
however,  it  is  not  at  first  resourcefulness  that  helps 
the  hero,  but  sheer  kindness  of  heart,  which  prompts 
him  first  to  help  the  ants,  and  then  to  show  civility 
to  the  old  woman,  without  for  a  moment  expecting 
any  material  benefit  from  such  actions.  At  the  end, 
he  does  win  on  his  own  ingenuity  and  resourceful- 
ness, and  if  we  regret  that  his  trickery  has  such 
*  See  list  of  stories  under  this  heading. 

78 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

wonderful  results,  we  must  remember  the  aim  was 
to  win  the  princess  for  herself,  and  that  there  was 
little  choice  left  him.  I  consider  that  the  end  of 
this  story  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  I  have 
found  in  my  long  years  of  browsing  among  fairy 
tales.  I  should  suggest  stopping  at  the  words': 
''The  Tub  is  full,"  as  any  addition  seems  to  destroy 
the  subtlety  of  the  story. ^ 

Another  story  of  this  kind,  admirable  for  children 
from  six  years  and  upwards,  is,  "What  the  Old  Man 
Does  is  Always  Right."  Here,  perhaps,  the  entire 
lack  of  common-sense  on  the  part  of  the  hero  would 
serve  rather  as  a  warning  than  a  stimulating  ex- 
ample, but  the  conduct  of  the  wife  in  excusing  the 
errors  of  her  foolish  husband  is  a  model  of  resource- 
fulness. 

In  the  story  of  "Hereafter-this,"  ^  we  have  just 
the  converse :  a  perfectly  foolish  wife  shielded  by  a 
most  patient  and  forbearing  husband,  whose  toler- 
ance and  common-sense  save  the  situation. 

One  of  the  most  important  elements  to  seek  in  our 
choice  of  stories  is  that  which  tends  to  develop,  even- 
tually, a  fine  sense  of  humor  in  a  child.  I  purposely 
use  the  word,  "eventually,"  because  I  realize,  first, 
that  humor  has  various  stages,  and  that  seldom,  if 
ever,  can  one  expect  an  appreciation  of  fine  humor 
from  a  normal  child,  that  is,   from  an  elemental 

^  To  be  found  in  Andrew  Lang's  "The  Violet  Fairy  Book." 
■  To  be  found  in  Jacob's  "More  English  Fairy  Tales." 

79 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

mind.  It  seems  as  if  the  rough-and-tumble  element 
were  almost  a  necessary  stage  through  which  chil- 
dren must  pass,  and  which  is  a  normal  and  healthy- 
stage;  but  up  to  now  we  have  quite  unnecessarily 
extended  the  period  of  elephantine  fun,  and,  though 
we  cannot  control  the  manner  in  which  children  are 
catered  to  along  this  line  in  their  homes,  we  can  re- 
strict the  folly  of  appealing  too  strongly  or  too  long 
to  this  elemental  faculty  in  our  schools.  Of  course, 
the  temptation  is  strong  because  the  appeal  is  so 
easy,  but  there  is  a  tacit  recognition  that  horseplay 
and  practical  jokes  are  no  longer  considered  as  an 
essential  part  of  a  child's  education.  We  note  this 
in  the  changed  attitude  in  the  schools,  taken  by  more 
advanced  educators,  towards  bullying,  fagging, 
hazing,  etc.  As  a  reaction,  then,  from  more  obvious 
fun,  there  should  be  a  certain  number  of  stories 
which  make  appeal  to  a  more  subtle  element,  and  in 
the  chapter  on  the  questions  put  to  me  by  teachers  on 
various  occasions  I  speak  more  in  detail  as  to  the 
educational  value  of  a  finer  humor  in  our  stories. 

At  some  period  there  ought  to  be  presented  in  our 
stories  the  superstitions  connected  with  the  primitive 
history  of  the^ace,  dealing  with  the  fairy  proper, 
giants,  dwarfs,  gnomes,  nixies,  brownies  and  other 
elemental  beings.  Andrew  Lang  says:  "Without 
our  savage  ancestors  we  should  have  had  no  poetry. 
Conceive  the  human  race  born  into  the  world  in 
its  present  advanced  condition,  weighing,  analyzing, 

80 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

examining  everything.  Such  a  race  would  have 
been  destitute  of  poetry  and  flattened  by  common- 
sense.    Barbarians  did  the  dreaming  of  the  world." 

But  it  is  a  question  of  much  debate  among  edu- 
cators as  to  what  should  be  the  period  of  the  child's 
life  in  which  these  stories  are  to  be  presented.  I, 
myself,  was  formerly  of  the  opinion  that  they  be- 
longed to  the  very  primitive  age  of  the  individual, 
just  as  they  belong  to  the  primitive  age  of  the  race, 
but  experience  in  telling  stories  has  taught  me  to 
compromise. 

Some  people  maintain  that  little  children,  who 
take  things  with  brutal  logic,  ought  not  to  be  allowed 
the  fairy  tale  in  its  more  limited  form  of  the  super- 
natural; whereas,  if  presented  to  older  children,  this 
material  can  be  criticized,  catalogued  and  (alas!) 
rejected  as  worthless,  or  retained  with  flippant  tol- 
eration. 

While  realizing  a  certain  value  in  this  point  of 
view,  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  if  we  regulate  our 
stories  entirely  on  this  basis,  we  lose  the  real  value 
of  the  fairy  tale  element.  It  is  the  one  element 
which  causes  little  children  to  wonder,  simply  be- 
cause no  scientific  analysis  of  the  story  can  be  pre- 
sented to  them.  It  is  somewhat  heartrending  to 
feel  that  "J^^k  and  the  Bean  Stalk"  and  stories  of 
that  ilk  are  to  be  handed  over  to  the  critical  youth 
who  will  condemn  the  quick  growth  of  the  tree  as 
being  contrary  to  the  order  of  nature,  and  wonder 

8i 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

why  Jack  was  not  playing  football  on  the  school 
team  instead  of  climbing  trees  in  search  of  imag- 
inary adventures. 

A  wonderful  plea  for  the  telling  of  early  super- 
stitions to  children  is  to  be  found  in  an  old  Indian 
allegory  called,  "The  Blazing  Mansion." 

An  old  man  owned  a  large  rambling  Mansion.  The 
pillars  were  rotten,  the  galleries  tumbling  down,  the 
thatch  dry  and  combustible,  and  there  was  only  one  door. 
Suddenly,  one  day,  there  was  a  smell  of  fire :  the  old  man 
rushed  out.  To  his  horror  he  saw  that  the  thatch  was 
aflame,  the  rotten  pillars  were  catching  fire  one  by  one, 
and  the  rafters  were  burning  like  tinder.  But,  inside,  the 
children  went  on  amusing  themselves  quite  happily.  The 
distracted  Father  said:  "I  will  run  in  and  save  my  chil- 
dren. I  will  seize  them  in  my  strong  arms,  I  will  bear 
them  harmless  through  the  falling  rafters  and  the  blazing 
beams."  Then  the  sad  thought  came  to  him  that  the  chil- 
dren were  romping  and  ignorant.  "If  I  say  the  house  is 
on  fire,  they  will  not  understand  me.  If  I  try  to  seize 
them,  they  will  romp  about  and  try  to  escape.  Alas !  not 
a  moment  to  be  lost !"  Suddenly  a  bright  thought  flashed 
across  the  old  man's  mind.  "My  children  are  ignorant," 
he  said;  "they  love  toys  and  glittering  playthings.  I  will 
promise  them  playthings  of  unheard-of  beauty.  Then 
they  will  listen." 

So  the  old  man  shouted:  "Children,  come  out  of  the 
house  and  see  these  beautiful  toys !  Chariots  with  white 
oxen,  all  gold  and  tinsel.  See  these  exquisite  little  ante- 
lopes. Whoever  saw  such  goats  as  these?  Children, 
children,  come  quickly,  or  they  will  all  be  gone !" 

Forth  from  the  blazing  ruin  the  children  came  in  hot 

82 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

haste.    The  word,  "plaything,"  was  almost  the  only  word 
they  could  understand. 

Then  the  Father,  rejoiced  that  his  offspring  were  freed 
from  peril,  procured  for  them  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
chariots  ever  seen.  The  chariot  had  a  canopy  like  a 
pagoda;  it  had  tiny  rails  and  balustrades  and  rows  of 
jingling  bells.  Milk-white  oxen  drew  the  chariot.  The 
children  were  astonished  when  they  were  placed  inside.* 

Perhaps,  as  a  compromise,  one  might  give  the 
gentler  superstitions  to  very  small  children,  and 
leave  such  a  blood-curdling  story  as  "Bluebeard'*  to 
a  more  robust  age. 

There  is  one  modem  method  which  has  always 
seemed  to  me  much  to  be  condemned,  and  that  is  the 
habit  of  changing  the  end  of  a  story,  for  fear  of 
alarming  the  child.  This  is  quite  indefensible.  In 
doing  this  we  are  tampering  with  folklore  and  con- 
fusing stages  of  development. 

Now,  I  know  that  there  are  individual  children 
that,  at  a  tender  age,  might  be  alarmed  at  such  a 
story,  for  instance,  as  "Little  Red  Riding-Hood''; 
in  which  case,  it  is  better  to  sacrifice  the  "wonder 
stage"  and  present  the  story  later  on. 

I  live  in  dread  of  finding  one  day  a  bowdlerized 
form  of  "Bluebeard,"  prepared  for  a  junior  stand- 
ard, in  which,  to  produce  a  satisfactory  finale,  all 
the  wives  come  to  life  again,  and  "live  happily  for- 
ever after"  with  Bluebeard  and  each  other ! 

And  from  this  point  it  seems  an  easy  transition  to 

^  From  the  "Thabagata." 

83 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

the  subject  of  legends  of  different  kinds.  Some  of 
the  old  country  legends  in  connection  with  flowers 
are  very  charming  for  children,  and  so  long  as  we 
do  not  tread  on  the  sacred  ground  of  the  nature 
students,  we  may  indulge  in  a  moderate  use  of  such 
stories,  of  which  a  few  will  be  found  in  the  List  of 
Stories,  given  later. 

With  regard  to  the  introduction  of  legends  con- 
nected with  saints  into  the  school  curriculum,  my 
chief  plea  is  the  element  of  the  unusual  which  they 
contain  and  an  appeal  to  a  sense  of  mysticism  and 
wonder  which  is  a  wise  antidote  to  the  prosaic  and 
commercial  tendencies  of  today.  Though  many  of 
the  actions  of  the  saints  may  be  the  result  of  a  mor- 
bid strain  of  self-sacrifice,  at  least  none  of  them 
was  engaged  in  the  sole  occupation  of  becoming 
rich:  their  ideals  were  often  lofty  and  unselfish; 
their  courage  high,  and  their  deeds  noble.  We  must 
be  careful,  in  the  choice  of  our  legends,  to  show  up 
the  virile  qualities  rather  than  to  dwell  on  the  ele- 
ments of  horror  in  details  of  martyrdom,  or  on  the 
too-constantly  recurring  miracles,  lest  we  should 
defeat  our  own  ends.  For  the  children  might  think 
lightly  of  the  dangers  to  which  the  saints  were  ex- 
posed if  they  find  them  too  often  preserved  at  the 
last  moment  from  the  punishment  they  were  brave 
enough  to  undergo.  For  one  or  another  of  these 
reasons,  I  should  avoid  the  detailed  history  of  St. 
Juliana,  St.  Vincent,  St.  Quintin,  St.  Eustace,  St. 

84 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

Winifred,  St.  Theodore,  St.  James  the  More,  St. 
Katharine,  St.  Cuthbert,  St.  Alphage,  St.  Peter  of 
Milan,  St.  Quirine  and  Juliet,  St.  Alban  and  others. 

The  danger  of  telling  children  stories  connected 
with  sudden  conversions  is  that  they  are  apt  to  place 
too  much  emphasis  on  the  process,  rather  than  on 
the  goal  to  be  reached.  We  should  always  insist  on 
the  splendid  deeds  performed  after  a  real  conver- 
sion, not  the  details  of  the  conversion  itself;  as,  for 
instance,  the  beautiful  and  poetical  work  done  by 
St.  Christopher  when  he  realized  what  work  he 
could  do  most  effectively. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  stories  of  the 
saints  dealing  with  actions  and  motives  which  would 
appeal  to  the  imagination  and  are  not  only  worthy 
of  imitation,  but  are  not  wholly  outside  the  life  and 
experience  even  of  the  child.^ 

Having  protested  against  the  elephantine  joke  and 
the  too- frequent  use  of  exaggerated  fun,  I  now  en- 
deavor to  restore  the  balance  by  suggesting  the  in- 
troduction into  the  school  curriculum  of  a  few  purely 
grotesque  stories  which  serve  as  an  antidote  to  sen- 
timentality or  utilitarianism.  But  they  must  be 
presented  as  nonsense,  so  that  the  children  may  use 
them  for  what  they  are  intended  as — pure  relaxation. 
Such  a  story  is  that  of  "The  Wolf  and  the  Kids," 

*  For  selection  of  suitable  stories  among  legends  of  the 
Saints,  see  list  of  stories  under  the  heading,  "Stories  from 
the  Lives  of  the  Saints." 

85 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

which  I  present  in  my  own  version  at  the  end  of  the 
book.  I  have  had  serious  objections  offered  to  this 
story  by  several  educational  people,  because  of  the 
revenge  taken  by  the  goat  on  the  wolf,  but  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  if  the  story  is  to  be  taken  as  any- 
thing but  sheer  nonsense,  it  is  surely  sentimental  to 
extend  our  sympathy  towards  a  caller  who  has  de- 
voured six  of  his  hostess'  children.  With  regard 
to  the  wolf  being  cut  open,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
need  to  accentuate  the  physical  side.  Children  ac- 
cept the  deed  as  they  accept  the  cutting  off  of  a 
giant's  head,  because  they  do  not  associate  it  with 
pain,  especially  if  the  deed  is  presented  half  humor- 
ously. The  moment  in  the  story  where  their  sym- 
pathy is  aroused  is  the  swallowing  of  the  kids,  be- 
cause the  children  do  realize  the  possibility  of  being 
disposed  of  in  the  mother's  absence.  (Needless  to 
say,  I  never  point  out  the  moral  of  the  kids'  dis- 
obedience to  the  mother  in  opening  the  door.)  I 
have  always  noticed  a  moment  of  breathlessness 
even  in  a  grown-up  audience  when  the  wolf  swal- 
lows the  kids,  and  that  the  recovery  of  them  "all 
safe  and  sound,  all  huddled  together"  is  quite  as 
much  appreciated  by  the  adult  audience  as  by  the 
children,  and  is  worth  the  tremor  caused  by  the 
wolf's  summary  action. 

I  have  not  always  been  able  to  impress  upon  the 
teachers  the  fact  that  this  story  must  be  taken 
lightly.    A  very  earnest  young  student  came  to  me 

86 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

once  after  the  telling  of  this  story  and  said  in  an 
awe-struck  voice:  *'Do  you  cor-relate?"  Having 
recovered  from  the  effect  of  this  word,  which  she 
carefully  explained,  I  said  that,  as  a  rule,  I  pre- 
ferred to  keep  the  story  quite  apart  from  the  other 
lessons,  just  an  undivided  whole,  because  it  had 
effects  of  its  own  which  were  best  brought  about  by 
not  being  connected  with  other  lessons.  She 
frowned  her  disapproval  and  said :  *'l  am  sorry, 
because  I  thought  I  would  take  the  Goat  for  my 
nature  study  lesson,  and  then  tell  your  story  at  the 
end."  I  thought  of  the  terrible  struggle  in  the 
child's  mind  between  his  conscientious  wish  to  be 
accurate  and  his  dramatic  enjoyment  of  the  abnor- 
mal habits  of  a  goat  who  went  out  with  scissors, 
needle  and  thread;  but  I  have  been  most  careful 
since  to  repudiate  any  connection  with  nature  study 
in  this  and  a  few  other  stories  in  my  repertoire. 

One  might  occasionally  introduce  one  of  Edward 
Lear's  "Nonsense  Rhymes."    For  instance : 

There  was  an  Old  Man  of  Cape  Horn 
Who  wished  he  had  never  been  born. 

So  he  sat  in  a  chair 

Till  he  died  of  despair, 
That  dolorous  Old  Man  of  Cape  Horn. 

Now,  except  in  case  of  very  young  children,  this 
could  not  possibly  be  taken  seriously.  The  least 
observant  normal  boy  or  girl  would  recognize  the 
hollowness  of  the  pessimism  that  prevents  an  old 

87 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

man  from  at  least  an  attempt  to  rise  from  his  chair. 
The  following  I  have  chosen  as  repeated  with 
intense  appreciation  and  much  dramatic  vigor  by  a 
little  boy  just  five  years  old : 

There  was  an  old  man  who  said :  "Hush  ! 
I  perceive  a  young  bird  in  that  bush." 

When  they  said:     "Is  it  small?" 

He  replied,  "Not  at  all. 
It  is  four  times  as  large  as  the  bush."  * 

One  of  the  most  desirable  of  all  elements  to  in- 
troduce into  our  stories  is  that  which  encourages 
i  kinship  with  animals.  With  very  young  children 
this  is  easy,  because  during  those  early  years  when 
the  mind  is  not  clogged  with  knowledge,  the  sym- 
pathetic imagination  enables  them  to  enter  into  the 
feelings  of  animals.  Andersen  has  an  illustration 
of  this  point  in  his  *Tce  Maiden"  : 

"Children  who  cannot  talk  yet  can  understand 
the  language  of  fowls  and  ducks  quite  well,  and  cats 
and  dogs  speak  to  them  quite  as  plainly  as  Father 
and  Mother;  but  that  is  only  when  the  children  are 
very  small,  and  then  even  Grandpapa's  stick  will 
become  a  perfect  horse  to  them  that  can  neigh  and, 
in  their  eyes,  is  furnished  with  legs  and  a  tail.  With 
some  children  this  period  ends  later  than  with  oth- 
ers, and  of  such  we  are  accustomed  to  say  that  they 
are  very  backward,  and  that  they  have  remained 

*  These  words  have  been  set  most  effectively  to  music  by 
Miss  Margaret  Ruthven  Lang. 

88 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

children  for  a  long  time.  People  are  in  the  habit  of 
saying  strange  things.'' 

Felix  Adler  says : 

"Perhaps  the  chief  attraction  of  fairy  tales  is  due 
to  their  representing  the  child  as  living  in  brotherly 
friendship  with  nature  and  all  creatures.  Trees, 
flowers,  animals,  wild  and  tame,  even  the  stars  are 
represented  as  comrades  of  children.  That  animals 
are  only  human  beings  in  disguise  is  an  axiom  in 
the  fairy  tales.  Animals  are  humanized,  that  is,  the 
kinship  between  animal  and  human  life  is  still  keenly 
felt,  and  this  reminds  us  of  those  early  animistic  in- 
terpretations of  nature  which  subsequently  led  to 
doctrines  of  metempsychosis."  * 

I  think  that  beyond  question  the  finest  animal 
stories  are  to  be  found  in  the  Indian  collections,  of 
which  I  furnish  a  list  in  the  last  chapter. 

With  regard  to  the  development  of  the  love  of 
Nature  through  the  telling  of  stories,  we  are  con- 
fronted with  a  great  difficulty  in  the  elementary 
schools  because  so  many  of  the  children  have  never 
been  out  of  the  towns,  have  never  seen  a  daisy,  a 
blade  of  grass  and  scarcely  a  tree,  so  that  in  giving, 
in  the  form  of  a  story,  a  beautiful  description  of 
scenery,  you  can  make  no  appeal  to  the  retrospective 
imagination,  and  only  the  rarely  gifted  child  will  be 
able  to  make  pictures  while  listening  to  a  style  which 

'  From  "The  Use  of  Fairy  Tales,"  in  "Moral   Instruction 
of  Children." 

89 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

is  beyond  his  everyday  use.  Nevertheless,  once  in  a 
while,  when  the  children  are  in  a  quiet  mood,  not 
eager  for  action  but  able  to  give  themselves  up  to 
the  pure  joy  of  sound,  then  it  is  possible  to  give 
them  a  beautiful  piece  of  writing  in  praise  of  Na- 
ture, such  as  the  following,  taken  from  "The  Divine 
Adventure,**  by  Fiona  Macleod: 

Then  he  remembered  the  ancient  wisdom  of  the  Gael 
and  came  out  of  the  Forest  Chapel  and  went  into  the 
woods.  He  put  his  lip  to  the  earth,  and  lifted  a  green 
leaf  to  his  brow,  and  held  a  branch  to  his  ear;  and  be- 
cause he  was  no  longer  heavy  with  the  sweet  clay  of  mor- 
tality, though  yet  of  human  clan,  he  heard  that  which  we 
do  not  hear,  and  saw  that  which  we  do  not  see,  and  knew 
that  which  we  do  not  know.  All  the  green  life  was  his. 
In  that  new  world  he  saw  the  lives  of  trees,  now  pale 
green,  now  of  woodsmoke  blue,  now  of  amethyst;  the 
gray  lives  of  stone;  breaths  of  the  grass  and  reed,  crea- 
tures of  the  air,  delicate  and  wild  as  fawns,  or  swift  and 
fierce  and  terrible  tigers  of  that  undiscovered  wilderness, 
with  birds  almost  invisible  but  for  their  luminous  wings, 
and  opalescent  crests. 

The  value  of  this  particular  passage  is  the  mys- 
tery pervading  the  whole  picture,  which  forms  so 
beautiful  an  antidote  to  the  eternal  explaining  of 
things.  I  think  it  of  the  highest  importance  for 
children  to  realize  that  the  best  and  most  beautiful 
things  cannot  be  expressed  in  everyday  language  and 
that  they  must  content  themselves  with  a  flash  here 
and  there  of  the  beauty  which  may  come  later.    One 

90 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

does  not  enhance  the  beauty  of  the  mountain  by 
pulHng  to  pieces  some  of  the  earthy  clogs;  one  does 
not  increase  the  impression  of  a  vast  ocean  by  an- 
alyzing the  single  drops  of  water.  But  at  a  reverent 
distance  one  gets  a  clear  impression  of  the  whole, 
and  can  afford  to  leave  the  details  in  the  shadow. 

In  presenting  such  passages  (and  it  must  be  done 
very  sparingly),  experience  has  taught  me  that  we 
should  take  the  children  into  our  confidence  by  tell- 
ing them  frankly  that  nothing  exciting  is  going  to 
happen,  so  that  they  will  be  free  to  listen  to  the 
mere  words.  A  very  interesting  experiment  might 
occasionally  be  made  by  asking  the  children  some 
weeks  afterwards  to  tell  you  in  their  own  words 
what  pictures  were  made  on  their  minds.  This  is 
a  very  different  thing  from  allowing  the  children  to 
reproduce  the  passage  at  once,  the  danger  of  which 
proceeding  I  speak  of  later  in  detail.^ 

We  now  come  to  the  question  as  to  what  propor- 
tion of  dramatic  excitement  we  should  present  in 
the  stories  for  a  normal  group  of  children.  Per- 
sonally, I  should  like,  while  the  child  is  very  young, 
I  mean  in  mind,  not  in  years,  to  exclude  the  element 
of  dramatic  excitement,  but  though  this  may  be 
possible  for  the  individual  child,  it  is  quite  Utopian 
to  hope  that  we  can  keep  the  average  child  free  from 
what  is  in  the  atmosphere.  Children  crave  for  ex- 
citement, and  unless  we  give  it  to  them  in  legitimate 
*  See  Chapter  on  Questions  asked  by  Teachers. 
91 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

•form,  they  will  take  it  in  any  riotous  form  it  pre- 
sents itself,  and  if  from  our  experience  we  can  con- 
trol their  mental  digestion  by  a  moderate  supply  of 
what  they  demand,  we  may  save  them  from  devour- 
ing too  eagerly  the  raw  material  they  can  so  easily 
find  for  themselves. 

There  is  a  humorous  passage  bearing  on  this  ques- 
tion in  the  story  of  the  small  Scotch  boy,  when  he 
asks  leave  of  his  parents  to  present  the  pious  little 
book — a  gift  to  himself  from  an  aunt  to  a  little  sick 
friend,  hoping  probably  that  the  friend's  chastened 
condition  will  make  him  more  lenient  towards  this 
mawkish  form  of  literature.  The  parents  expostu- 
late, pointing  out  to  their  son  how  ungrateful  he  is, 
and  how  ungracious  it  would  be  to  part  with  his 
aunt's  gift.  Then  the  boy  can  contain  himself  no 
longer.  He  bursts  out,  unconsciously  expressing 
the  normal  attitude  of  children  at  a  certain  stage  of 
development : 

"It's  a  daft  book  ony  way :  there's  naebody  gets  kilt  ent. 
I  Hke  stories  about  folk  gettin'  their  heids  cut  off,  or 
stabbit,  through  and  through,  wi'  swords  an'  spears.  An' 
there's  nae  wile  beasts.  I  like  stories  about  black  men 
gettin'  ate  up,  an'  white  men  killin'  lions  and  tigers  an' 
bears  an' " 

Then,  again,  we  have  the  passage  from  George 
Eliot's  "Mill  on  the  Floss" : 

"Oh,  dear !  I  wish  they  would  not  fight  at  your  school, 
Tom.     Didn't  it  hurt  you?" 

92 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

"Hurt  me  ?  No,"  said  Tom,  putting  up  the  hooks  again, 
taking  out  a  large  pocketknife,  and  slowly  opening  the 
largest  blade,  which  he  looked  at  meditatively  as  he 
rubbed  his  finger  along  it.    Then  he  added: 

"I  gave  Spooner  a  black  eye — that's  what  he  got  for 
wanting  to  leather  me.  I  wasn't  going  to  go  halves  be- 
cause anybody  leathered  me." 

"Oh !  how  brave  you  are,  Tom.  I  think  you  are  like 
Samson.  If  there  came  a  lion  roaring  at  me,  I  think 
you'd  fight  him,  wouldn't  you,  Tom?" 

"How  can  a  lion  come  roaring  at  you,  you  silly  thing? 
There's  no  lions  only  in  the  shows." 

"No,  but  if  we  were  in  the  lion  countries-^I  mean  in 
Africa  where  it's  very  hot,  the  lions  eat  people  there.  I 
can  show  it  you  in  the  book  where  I  read  it." 

"Well,  I  should  get  a  gun  and  vShoot  him." 

"But  if  you  hadn't  got  a  gun? — we  might  have  gone  out, 
you  know,  not  thinking,  just  as  we  go  out  fishing,  and 
then  a  great  lion  might  come  towards  us  roaring,  and  we 
could  not  get  away  from  him.  What  should  you  do, 
Tom  ?" 

Tom  paused,  and  at  last  turned  away  contemptuously, 
saying:  "But  the  lion  isn't  coming.  What's  the  use  of 
talking?" 

This  passage  illustrates  also  the  difference  be- 
tween the  highly-developed  imagination  of  the  one 
and  the  stodgy  prosaical  temperament  of  the  other. 
Tom  could  enter  into  the  elementary  question  of 
giving  his  schoolfellow  a  black  eye,  but  could  not 
possibly  enter  into  the  drama  of  the  imaginary  ar- 
rival of  a  lion.  He  was  sorely  in  need  of  fairy 
stories. 

93 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

It  is  to  this  element  we  have  to  cater,  and  we  can- 
not shirk  our  responsibilities. 

William  James  says: 

"Living  things,  moving  things  or  things  that 
savor  of  danger  or  blood,  that  have  a  dramatic  qual- 
ity, these  are  the  things  natively  interesting  to  child- 
hood, to  the  exclusion  of  almost  everything  else,  and 
the  teacher  of  young  children,  until  more  artificial 
interests  have  grown  up,  will  keep  in  touch  with  his 
pupils  by  constant  appeal  to  such  matters  as  these."  ^ 

Of  course  the  savor  of  danger  and  blood  is  only 
one  of  the  things  to  which  we  should  appeal,  but  I 
give  the  whole  passage  to  make  the  point  clearer. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts  of  our  selec- 
tion, namely,  how  to  present  enough  excitement  for 
the  child  and  yet  include  enough  constructive  ele- 
ment which  will  satisfy  him  when  the  thirst  for 
"blugginess"  is  slaked. 

And  here  I  should  like  to  say  that,  while  wishing 
to  encourage  in  children  great  admiration  and  rever- 
ence for  the  courage  and  other  fine  qualities  which 
have  been  displayed  in  times  of  war  and  which  have 
mitigated  its  horrors,  I  think  we  should  show  that 
some  of  the  finest  moments  in  these  heroes'  lives  had 
nothing  to  do  with  their  profession  as  soldiers. 
Thus,  we  have  the  well-known  story  of  Sir  Philip 
Sydney  and  the  soldier;  the  wonderful  scene  where 
Roland  drags  the  bodies  of  his  dead  friends  to  re- 
*  From  "Talks  to  Teachers,"  page  93. 

94 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

ceive  the  blessing  of  the  Archbishop  after  the  battle 
of  Roncesvalle ;  ^  and  of  Napoleon  sending  the  sailor 
back  to  England.  There  is  a  moment  in  the  story  of 
Gunnar  when  he  pauses  in  the  midst  of  the  slaughter 
of  his  enemies,  and  says,  *T  wonder  if  I  am  less  base 
than  others,  because  I  kill  men  less  willingly  than 
they." 

And  in  the  "Burning  of  Njal,"  ^  we  have  the 
words  of  the  boy,  Thord,  when  his  grandmother, 
Bergthora,  urges  him  to  go  out  of  the  burning 
house. 

"  'You  promised  me  when  I  was  little,  grand- 
mother, that  I  should  never  go  from  you  till  I  wished 
it  of  myself.  And  I  would  rather  die  with  you  than 
live  after  you.*  " 

j  Here  the  rnoraLcourage  is  so  splendidly  shown: 
•none  of  these  heroes  feared  to  die  in  battle  or  in 
open  single  fight;  but  to  face  a  death  by  fire  for 
higher  considerations  is  a  point  of  view  worth  pre- 
senting to  the  child. 
.  In  spite  of  all  the  dramatic  excitement  roused  by 
I  the  conduct  of  our  soldiers  and  sailors,  should  we 
not  try  to  offer  also  in  our  stories  the  romance  and 
excitement  of  saving  as  well  as  taking  life? 

I  would  have  quite  a  collection  dealing  with  the 

^  An  excellent  account  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  "The  Song 
of  Roland,"  by  Arthur  Way  and  Frederic  Spender. 

'Njal's  Burning,  from  "The  Red  Book  of  Romance,"  by 
Andrew  Lang. 

95 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

thrilling  adventures  of  the  Lifeboat  and  the  Fire 
Brigade,  of  which  I  shall  present  examples  in  the 
final  story  list. 

Finally,  we  ought  to  include  a  certain  number  of 
stories  dealing  with  death,  especially  with  children 
who  are  of  an  age  to  realize  that  it  must  come  to  all, 
and  that  this  is  not  a  calamity  but  a  perfectly  natural 
and  simple  thing.  At  present  the  child  in  the  street 
invariably  connects  death  with  sordid  accidents.  I 
think  they  should  have  stories  of  death  coming  in 
heroic  form,  as  when  a  man  or  woman  dies  for  a 
great  cause,  in  which  he  has  opportunity  of  admiring 
courage,  devotion  and  unselfishness;  or  of  death 
coming  as  a  result  of  treachery,  such  as  we  find  in 
the  death  of  Baldur,  the  death  of  Siegfried,  and 
others,  so  that  children  may  learn  to  abhor  such 
deeds;  but  also  a  fair  proportion  of  stories  dealing 
with  death  that  comes  naturally,  when  our  work  is 
done,  and  our  strength  gone,  which  has  no  more 
tragedy  than  the  falling  of  a  leaf  from  the  tree.  In 
this  way,  we  can  give  children  the  first  idea  that  the 
individual  is  so  much  less  than  the  whole. 

Little  children  often  take  death  very  naturally. 
A  boy  of  five  met  two  of  his  older  companions  at 
the  school  door.  They  said  sadly  and  solemnly: 
"We  have  just  seen  a  dead  man !"  "Well,"  said  the 
little  philosopher,  "that's  all  right.  We've  all  got 
to  die  when  our  work's  done." 

In  one  of  the  Buddha  stories  which  I  reproduce 

96 


I 


ELEMENTS  TO  SEEK  IN  MATERIAL 

at  the  end  of  this  book,  the  little  Hare  (who  is,  I 
think,  a  symbol  of  nervous  individualism)  constantly 
says:  "Suppose  the  Earth  were  to  fall  in,  what 
would  become  of  me  ?" 

As  an  antidote  to  the  ordinary  attitude  towards 
death,  I  commend  an  episode  from  a  German  folk- 
lore story  which  is  called  "Unlucky  John,"  and 
which  is  included  in  the  list  of  stories  recommended 
at  the  end  of  this  book. 

The  following  sums  up  in  poetic  form  some  of  the 
material  necessary  for  the  wants  of  a  child. 

THE  CHILD 


The  little  new  soul  has  come  to  earth, 

He  has  taken  his  staff  for  the  Pilgrim's  way. 

His  sandals  are  girt  on  his  tender  feet, 
And  he  carries  his  scrip  for  what  gifts  he  may. 


What  will  you  give  to  him,  Fate  Divine? 

What  for  his  scrip  on  the  winding  road? 
A  crown  for  his  head,  or  a  laurel  wreath? 

A  sword  to  wield,  or  is  gold  his  load? 

3 

What  will  you  give  him  for  weal  or  woe? 

What  for  the  journey  through  day  and  night? 
Give  or  withhold  from  him  power  and  fame. 

But  give  to  him  love  of  the  earth's  delight. 


97 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

4 

Let  him  be  lover  of  wind  and  sun 

And  of  falling  rain;  and  the  friend  of  trees 
With  a  singing  heart  for  the  pride  of  noon, 

And  a  tender  heart  for  what  twilight  sees. 

5 
Let  him  be  lover  of  you  and  yours — 

The  Child  and  Mary ;  but  also  Pan 
And  the  sylvan  gods  of  the  woods  and  hills. 

And  the  god  that  is  hid  in  his  fellowman. 


Love  and  a  song  and  the  joy  of  earth, 
These  be  the  gifts  for  his  scrip  to  keep 

Till,  the  journey  ended,  he  stands  at  last 
In  the  gathering  dark,  at  the  gate  of  sleep. 

Ethel  Clifford. 

And  so  our  stories  should  contain  all  the  essen- 
tials for  the  child's  scrip  on  the  road  of  life,  provid- 
ing the  essentials  and  holding  or  withholding  the 
non-essentials.  But,  above  all,  let  us  fill  the  scrip 
with  gifts  that  the  child  need  never  reject,  even  when 
he  passes  through  to  "the  gate  of  sleep." 


CHAPTER   VI 

HOW  TO  OBTAIN  AND  MAINTAIN  THE  EFFECT 
OF  THE  STORY 

We  are  now  come  to  the  most  important  part  of 
the  question  of  story-telling,  to  which  all  the  fore- 
going remarks  have  been  gradually  leading,  and 
that  is  the  effect  of  these  stories  upon  the  child, 
quite  apart  from  the  dramatic  joy  he  experiences 
in  listening  to  them,  which  would  in  itself  be  quite 
enough  to  justify  us  in  the  telling.  But,  since  I 
have  urged  the  extreme  importance  of  giving  so 
much  time  to  the  manner  of  telling  and  of  bestow- 
ing so  much  care  in  the  selection  of  the  material,  it 
is  right  that  we  should  expect  some  permanent  re- 
sults or  else  those  who  are  not  satisfied  with  the 
mere  enjoyment  of  the  children  will  seek  other 
methods  of  appeal — and  it  is  to  them  that  I  most 
specially  dedicate  this  chapter. 

I  think  we  are  on  the  threshold  of  the  re-discovery 
of  an  old  truth,  that  dramatic  presentation  is  the 
quickest  and  the  surest  method  of  appeal,  because 
it  is  the  only  one  with  which  memory  plays  no 
tricks.    If  a  thing  has  appeared  before  us  in  a  vital 

99 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

form,  nothing  can  really  destroy  it;  it  is  because 
things  are  often  given  in  a  blurred,  faint  light  that 
they  gradually  fade  out  of  our  memory.  A  very 
keen  scientist  was  deploring  to  me,  on  one  occasion, 
the  fact  that  stories  were  told  so  much  in  the  schools, 
to  the  detriment  of  science,  for  which  she  claimed 
the  same  indestructible  element  that  I  recognize  in 
the  best-told  stories.  Being  very  much  interested 
in  her  point  of  view,  I  asked  her  to  tell  me,  looking 
back  on  her  school  days,  what  she  could  remember 
as  standing  out  from  other  less  clear  information. 
After  thinking  some  little  time  over  the  matter,  she 
said  with  some  embarrassment,  but  with  a  candor 
that  did  her  much  honor : 

"Well,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  was  the  story 
of  Cinderella.'* 

Now,  I  am  not  holding  any  brief  for  this  story  in 
particular.  I  think  the  reason  it  was  remembered 
was  because  of  the  dramatic  form  in  which  it  was 
presented  to  her,  which  fired  her  imagination  and 
kept  the  memory  alight.  I  quite  realize  that  a  scien- 
tific fact  might  also  have  been  easily  remembered  if 
it  had  been  presented  in  the  form  of  a  successful 
chemical  experiment;  but  this  also  has  something 
of  the  dramatic  appeal  and  will  be  remembered  on 
that  account. 

Sully  says :  "We  cannot  understand  the  fascina- 
tion of  a  story  for  children  save  in  remembering 
that  for  their  young  minds,  quick  to  imagine,  and 

100 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFE0;T  OF  THfi'^TQJlV 

unversed  in  abstract  reflection,  words  are  not  dead 
things  but  wingedj  as  the  old  Greeks  called  them."  ^ 

The  Red  Queen,  in  "Alice  Through  the  Looking- 
Glass,"  was  more  psychological  than  she  was  aware 
of  when  she  made  the  memorable  statement: 
"When  once  you've  safd  a  thing,  that  fixes  it,  and 
you  must  take  the  consequences." 

In  Curtin's  "Introduction  to  Myths  and  Folk 
Tales  of  the  Russians,"  he  says : 

"I  remember  well  the  feelings  roused  in  my  mind 
at  the  mention  or  sight  of  the  name  Lucifer  during 
the  early  years  of  my  life.  It  stood  for  me  as  the 
name  of  a  being  stupendous,  dreadful  in  moral  de- 
formity, lurid,  hideous  and  mighty.  I  remember 
the  surprise  with  which,  when  I  had  grown  some- 
what older  and  began  to  study  Latin,  I  came  upon 
the  name  in  Virgil  where  it  means  Ught-hringer — 
the  herald  of  the  Sun." 

Plato  has  said  that  "the  end  of  education  should 
be  the  training  by  suitable  habits  of  the  instincts  of 
virtue  in  the  child." 

About  two  thousand  years  later.  Sir  Philip  Syd- 
ney, in  his  "Defence  of  Poesy,"  says:  "The  final 
end  of  learning  is  to  draw  and  lead  us  to  so  high  a 
perfection  as  our  degenerate  souls,  made  worse  by 
their  clay  lodgings,  can  be  capable  of." 

And  yet  it  is  neither  the  Greek  philosopher  nor 
the  Elizabethan  poet  that  makes  the  everyday  appli- 

'  From  "Studies  of  Childhood." 
lOI 


;  jlKtE'ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

cation  of  these  principles;  but  we  have  a  hint  of  this 
apphcation  from  the  Pueblo  tribe  of  Indians,  of 
whom  Lummis  tells  us  the  following : 

"There  is  no  duty  to  which  a  Pueblo  child  is 
trained  in  which  he  has  to  be  content  with  a  bare 
command :  do  this.  For  each,  he  learns  a  fairy-tale 
designed  to  explain  how  children  first  came  to  know 
that  it  was  right  to  'do  this,'  and  detailing  the  sad 
results  that  befell  those  who  did  otherwise.  Some 
tribes  have  regular  story-tellers,  men  who  have  de- 
voted a  great  deal  of  time  to  learning  the  myths  and 
stories  of  their  people  and  who  possess,  in  addition 
to  a  good  memory,  a  vivid  imagination.  The  mother 
sends  for  one  of  these,  and  having  prepared  a  feast 
for  him,  she  and  her  little  brood,  who  are  curled  up 
near  her,  await  the  fairy  stories  of  the  dreamer, 
who  after  his  feast  and  smoke  entertains  the  com- 
pany for  hours." 

In  modern  times,  the  nurse,  who  is  now  receiving 
such  complete  training  for  her  duties  with  children, 
should  be  ready  to  imitate  the  "dreamer"  of  the 
Indian  tribe.  I  rejoice  to  find  that  regular  instruc- 
tion in  story-telling  is  being  given  in  many  of  the 
institutions  where  the  nurses  are  trained. 

Some  years  ago  there  appeared  a  book  by  Dion 
Calthrop  called  "King  Peter,"  which  illustrates  very 
fully  the  effect  of  story-telling.  It  is  the  account 
of  the  education  of  a  young  prince  which  is  carried 
on  at  first  by  means  of  stories,  and  later  he  is  taken 

102 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

out  into  the  arena  of  life  to  show  what  is  happening 
there — the  dramatic  appeal  being  always  the  means 
used  to  awaken  his  imagination.  The  fact  that  only 
one  story  a  year  is  told  him  prevents  our  seeing  the 
effect  from  day  to  day,  but  the  time  matters  little. 
We  only  need  faith  to  believe  that  the  growth, 
though  slow,  was  sure. 

There  is  something  of  the  same  idea  in  the  "Ad- 
ventures of  Telemachus,"  written  by  Fenelon  for  his 
royal  pupil,  the  young  Duke  of  Burgundy,  but 
whereas  Calthrop  trusts  to  the  results  of  indirect 
teaching  by  means  of  dramatic  stories,  Fenelon,  on 
the  contrary,  makes  use  of  the  somewhat  heavy, 
didactic  method,  so  that  one  would  think  the  atten- 
tion of  the  young  prince  must  have  wandered  at 
times;  and  I  imagine  Telemachus  was  in  the  same 
condition  when  he  was  addressed  at  such  length 
by  Mentor,  who,  being  Minerva,  though  in  dis- 
guise, should  occasionally  have  displayed  that 
sense  of  humor  which  must  always  temper  true 
wisdom. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  heavy  reproof  conveyed 
in  the  following  passage : 

"Death  and  shipwreck  are  less  dreadful  than  the 
pleasures  that  attack  Virtue.  .  .  .  Youth  is  full  of 
presumption  and  arrogance,  though  nothing  in  the 
world  is  so  frail :  it  fears  nothing,  and  vainly  relies 
on  its  own  strength,  believing  everything  with  the 
utmost  levity  and  without  any  precaution.'* 

103 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

And  on  another  occasion,  when  Calypso  hospi- 
tably provides  clothes  for  the  shipwrecked  men,  and 
Telemachus  is  handling  a  tunic  of  the  finest  wool 
and  white  as  snow,  with  a  vest  of  purple  embroid- 
ered with  gold,  and  displaying  much  pleasure  in  the 
magnificence  of  the  clothes.  Mentor  addresses  him 
in  a  severe  voice,  saying:  "Are  these,  O  Telema- 
chus, the  thoughts  that  ought  to  occupy  the  heart 
of  the  son  of  Ulysses?  A  young  man  who  loves  to 
dress  vainly,  as  a  woman  does,  is  unworthy  of  wis- 
dom or  glory." 

I  remember,  as  a  schoolgirl  of  thirteen,  having 
to  commit  to  memory  several  books  of  these  adven- 
tures, so  as  to  become  familiar  with  the  style.  Far 
from  being  impressed  by  the  wisdom  of  Mentor,  I 
was  simply  bored,  and  wondered  why  Telemachus 
did  not  escape  from  him.  The  only  part  in  the 
book  that  really  interested  me  was  Calypso's  un- 
requited love  for  Telemachus,  but  this  was  always 
the  point  where  we  ceased  to  learn  by  heart,^  which 
surprised  me  greatly,  for  it  was  here  that  the  real 
human  interest  seemed  to  begin. 

Of  all  the  effects  which  I  hope  for  from  the  tell- 
ing of  stories  in  the  schools,  I,  personally,  place  first 
the  dramatic  joy  we  bring  to  the  children  and  to 
ourselves.  But  there  are  many  who  would  con- 
sider this  result  as  fantastic,  if  not  frivolous,  and 
not  to  be  classed  among  the  educational  values  con- 
nected with  the  introduction  of   stories  into   the 

104 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

school  curriculum.  I,  therefore,  propose  to  speak 
of  other  effects  of  story-telling  which  may  seem  of 
more  practical  value. 

The  first,  which  is  of  a  purely  negative  character, 
is  that  through  means  of  a  dramatic  story  we  may 
counteract  some  of  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
streets  which  appeal  to  the  melodramatic  instinct  in 
children.  I  am  sure  that  all  teachers  whose  work 
lies  in  crowded  cities  must  have  realized  the  effect 
produced  on  children  by  what  they  see  and  hear  on 
their  way  to  and  from  school.  If  we  merely  con- 
sider the  bill  boards  with  their  realistic  representa- 
tions, quite  apart  from  the  actual  dramatic  happen- 
ings in  the  street,  we  at  once  perceive  that  the  ordi- 
nary school  interests  pale  before  such  lurid  appeals 
as  these.  How  can  we  expect  the  child  who  has 
stood  openmouthed  before  a  poster  representing  a 
woman  chloroformed  by  a  burglar  (while  that  hero 
escapes  in  safety  with  her  jewels)  to  display  any 
interest  in  the  arid  monotony  of  the  multiplication 
table?  The  illegitimate  excitement  created  by  the 
sight  of  the  depraved  burglar  can  only  be  counter- 
acted by  something  equally  exciting  along  the  realis- 
tic but  legitimate  side  of  appeal;  and  this  is  where 
the  story  of  the  right  kind  becomes  so  valuable,  and 
why  the  teacher  who  is  artistic  enough  to  undertake 
the  task  can  find  the  short  path  to  results  which 
theorists  seek  for  so  long  in  vain.  It  is  not  even 
necessary  to  have  an  exceedingly  exciting  story; 

105 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

sometimes  one  which  will  bring  about  pure  reaction 
may  be  just  as  suitable. 

I  remember  in  my  personal  experience  an  instance 
of  this  kind.  I  had  been  reading  with  some  children 
of  about  ten  years  old  the  story  from  "Cymbeline" 
of  Imogen  in  the  forest  scene,  when  the  brothers 
strew  flowers  upon  her,  and  sing  the  funeral  dirge, 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  of  the  sun. 

Just  as  we  had  all  taken  on  this  tender,  gentle  mood, 
the  door  opened  and  one  of  the  prefects  announced 
in  a  loud  voice  the  news  of  the  relief  of  Mafeking. 
The  children  were  on  their  feet  at  once,  cheering 
lustily,  and  for  the  moment  the  joy  over  the  relief 
of  the  brave  garrison  was  the  predominant  feeling. 
Then,  before  the  jingo  spirit  had  time  to  assert  it- 
self, I  took  advantage  of  a  momentary  reaction  and 
said :  "Now,  children,  don't  you  think  we  can  pay 
England  the  tribute  of  going  back  to  England's 
greatest  poet  ?"  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  back  in 
the  heart  of  the  forest,  and  I  can  still  hear  the  de- 
lightful intonation  of  those  subdued  voices  re- 
peating, 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must 

Like  chimney-sweepers  come  to  dust. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  same  problem  that 
is  exercising  us  today  was  a  source  of  difficulty  to 
people  in  remote  times.     The  following  is  taken 

1 06 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

from  an  old  Chinese  document,  and  has  particular 
interest  for  us  at  this  time : 

"The  philosopher,  Mentius  (born  371  b.  c),  was 
left  fatherless  at  a  very  tender  age  and  brought  up 
by  his  mother,  Changsi.  The  care  of  this  prudent 
and  attentive  mother  has  been  cited  as  a  model  for 
all  virtuous  parents.  The  house  she  occupied  was 
near  that  of  a  butcher;  she  observed  at  the  first  cry 
of  the  animals  that  were  being  slaughtered,  the  little 
Mentius  ran  to  be  present  at  the  sight,  and  that,  on 
his  return,  he  sought  to  imitate  what  he  had  seen. 
Fearful  lest  his  heart  might  become  hardened,  and 
accustomed  to  the  sights  of  blood,  she  removed  to 
another  house  which  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  a 
cemetery.  The  relations  of  those  who  were  buried 
there  came  often  to  weep  upon  their  graves,  and 
make  their  customary  libations.  The  lad  soon  took 
pleasure  in  their  ceremonies  and  amused  himself 
by  imitating  them.  This  was  a  new  subject  of 
uneasiness  to  his  mother:  she  feared  her  son  might 
come  to  consider  as  a  jest  what  is  of  all  things  the 
most  serious,  and  that  he  might  acquire  a  habit  of 
performing  with  levity,  and  as  a  matter  of  routine 
merely,  ceremonies  which  demand  the  most  exact 
attention  and  respect.  Again,  therefore,  she  anx- 
iously changed  the  dwelling,  and  went  to  live  in  the 
city,  opposite  to  a  school,  where  her  son  found  ex- 
amples the  most  worthy  of  imitation,  and  began  to 
profit  by  them.    This  anecdote  has  become  incorpo- 

107 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

rated  by  the  Chinese  into  a  proverb,  which  they 
constantly  quote:  The  mother  of  Mentius  seeks  a 
neighborhood." 

Another  influence  we  have  to  counteract  is  that 
of  newspaper  headings  and  placards  which  catch  the 
eye  of  children  in  the  streets  and  appeal  so  power- 
fully to  their  imagination. 

Shakespeare  has  said : 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred. 

Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 

How  begot,  how  nourished? 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes 

With  gazing  fed, 

And  Fancy  dies  in  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell. 

I'll  begin  it — ding,  dong,  bell. 

— "Merchant  of  Venice." 

If  this  be  true,  it  is  of  importance  to  decide  what 
our  children  shall  look  upon  as  far  as  we  can  con- 
trol the  vision,  so  that  we  can  form  some  idea  of  the 
effect  upon  their  imagination. 

Having  alluded  to  the  dangerous  influence  of  the 
street,  I  should  hasten  to  say  that  this  influence  is 
very  far  from  being  altogether  bad.  There  are  pos- 
sibilities of  romance  in  street  life  which  may  have 
just  the  same  kind  of  effect  on  children  as  the  tell- 
ing of  exciting  stories.  I  am  indebted  to  Mrs. 
Arnold  Glover,  Honorary  Secretary  of  the  National 
Organization   of   Girls'    Clubs,^    one   of   the   most 

^  England. 

1 08 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

widely  informed  people  on  this  subject,  for  the  two 
following  experiences  gathered  from  the  streets  and 
which  bear  indirectly  on  the  subject  of  story-telling : 

Mrs.  Glover  was  visiting  a  sick  woman  in  a  very 
poor  neighborhood,  and  found,  sitting  on  the  door- 
step of  the  house,  two  little  children,  holding  some- 
thing tightly  grasped  in  their  little  hands,  and  gazing 
with  much  expectancy  towards  the  top  of  the  street. 
She  longed  to  know  what  they  were  doing,  but  not 
being  one  of  those  unimaginative  and  tactless  folk 
who  rush  headlong  into  the  mysteries  of  children's 
doings,  she  passed  them  at  first  in  silence.  It  was 
only  when  she  found  them  still  in  the  same  silent  and 
expectant  posture  half  an  hour  later  that  she  said 
tentatively :  "I  wonder  whether  you  would  tell  me 
what  you  are  doing  here  ?"  After  some  hesitation, 
one  of  them  said,  in  a  shy  voice :  "We're  waitin'  for 
the  barren"  It  then  transpired  that,  once  a  week, 
a  vegetable-  and  flower-cart  was  driven  through  this 
particular  street,  on  its  way  to  a  more  prosperous 
neighborhood,  and  on  a  few  red-letter  days,  a  flower, 
or  a  sprig,  or  even  a  root  sometimes  fell  out  of  the 
back  of  the  cart;  and  these  two  little  children  were 
sitting  there  in  hope,  with  their  hands  full  of  soil, 
ready  to  plant  anything  which  might  by  some  golden 
chance  fall  that  way,  in  their  secret  garden  of  oyster 
shells. 

This  seems  to  me  as  charming  a  fairy  tale  as  any 
that  our  books  can  supply. 

109 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

On  another  occasion,  Mrs.  Glover  was  collecting 
the  pennies  for  the  Holiday  Fund  Savings  Bank 
from  the  children  who  came  weekly  to  her  house. 
She  noticed  on  three  consecutive  Mondays  that  one 
little  lad  deliberately  helped  himself  to  a  new  en- 
velope from  her  table.  Not  wishing  to  frighten  or 
startle  him,  she  allowed  this  to  continue  for  some 
weeks,  and  then  one  day,  having  dismissed  the 
other  children,  she  asked  him  quite  quietly  why  he 
was  taking  the  envelopes.  At  first  he  was  very 
sulky,  and  said :  *1  need  them  more  than  you  do." 
She  quite  agreed  this  might  be,  but  reminded  him 
that,  after  all,  they  belonged  to  her.  She  promised, 
however,  that  if  he  would  tell  her  for  what  pur- 
pose he  wanted  the  envelopes,  she  would  endeavor 
to  help  him  in  the  matter.  Then  came  the  as- 
tonishing announcement :  "I  am  building  a  navy." 
After  a  little  more  gradual  questioning,  Mrs. 
Glover  drew  from  the  boy  the  information  that 
the  Borough  water  carts  passed  through  the  side 
street  once  a  week,  flushing  the  gutter;  that  then 
the  envelope  ships  were  made  to  sail  on  the  water 
and  pass  under  the  covered  ways  which  formed 
bridges  for  wayfarers  and  tunnels  for  the  "navy." 
Great  was  the  excitement  when  the  ships  passed 
out  of  sight  and  were  recognized  as  they  arrived 
safely  at  the  other  end.  Of  course,  the  ex- 
penses in  raw  material  were  greatly  diminished  by 
the   illicit  acquisition   of   Mrs.    Glover's  property, 

IIO 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

and  in  this  way  she  had  unconsciously  provided 
the  neighborhood  with  a  navy  and  a  commander. 
Her  first  instinct,  after  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  whole  story,  was  to  present  the  boy  with  a  real 
boat,  but  on  second  thought  she  collected  and  gave 
him  a  number  of  old  envelopes  with  names  and  ad- 
dresses upon  them,  which  added  greatly  to  the  ex- 
citement of  the  sailing,  because  they  could  be  more 
easily  identified  as  they  came  out  of  the  other  end 
of  the  tunnel,  and  had  their  respective  reputations 
as  to  speed. 

Here  is  indeed  food  for  romance,  and  I  give  both 
instances  to  prove  that  the  advantages  of  street  life 
are  to  be  taken  into  consideration  as  well  as  the  dis- 
advantages, though  I  think  we  are  bound  to  admit 
that  the  latter  outweigh  the  former. 

One  of  the  immediate  results  of  dramatic  stories 
is  the  escape  from  the  commonplace,  to  which  I 
have  already  alluded  in  quoting  Mr.  Goschen's 
words.  The  desire  for  this  escape  is  a  healthy  one, 
common  to  adults  and  children.  When  we  wish  to 
get  away  from  our  own  surroundings  and  interests, 
we  do  for  ourselves  what  I  maintain  we  ought  to  do 
for  children :  we  step  into  the  land  of  fiction.  It  has 
always  been  a  source  of  astonishment  to  me  that,  in 
trying  to  escape  from  our  own  everyday  surround- 
ings, we  do  not  step  more  boldly  into  the  land  of 
pure  romance,  which  would  form  a  real  contrast  to 
our  everyday  life,  but,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the 

III 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

fiction  which  is  sought  after  deals  with  the  subjects 
of  our  ordinary  existence,  namely,  frenzied  finance, 
sordid  poverty,  political  corruption,  fast  society,  and 
religious  doubts. 

There  is  the  same  danger  in  the  selection  of  fiction 
for  children:  namely,  a  tendency  to  choose  very 
utilitarian  stories,  both  in  form  and  substance,  so 
that  we  do  not  lift  the  children  out  of  the  common- 
place. I  remember  once  seeing  the  titles  of  two 
little  books,  the  contents  of  which  were  being  read 
or  told  to  children ;  one  was  called,  "Tom  the  Boot- 
black"; the  other,  "Dan  the  Newsboy."  My  chief 
objection  to  these  stories  was  the  fact  that  neither 
of  the  heroes  rejoiced  in  his  work  for  the  work's 
sake.  Had  Tom  even  invented  a  new  kind  of  black- 
ing, or  if  Dan  had  started  a  newspaper,  it  might 
have  been  encouraging  for  those  among  the  listeners 
who  were  thinking  of  engaging  in  similar  profes- 
sions. It  is  true,  both  gentlemen  amassed  large  for- 
tunes, but  surely  the  school  age  is  not  to  be  limited 
to  such  dreams  and  aspirations  as  these!  One 
wearies  of  the  tales  of  boys  who  arrive  in  a  town 
with  one  cent  in  their  pocket  and  leave  it  as  mil- 
lionaires, with  the  added  importance  of  a  mayor- 
alty. It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  the  romantic  proto- 
type of  these  worthy  youths  is  Dick  W hitting t on ,  for 
whom  we  unconsciously  cherish  the  affection  which 
we  often  bestow  on  a  far-off  personage.  Per- 
haps— who    can    say? — it    is   the    picturesque    ad- 

112 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

junct  of  the  cat,  lacking  to  modern  millionaires. 
I  do  not  think  it  Utopian  to  present  to  children  a 
fair  share  of  stories  which  deal  with  the  importance 
of  things  "untouched  by  hand."  They,  too,  can 
learn  at  an  early  age  that  "the  things  which  are  seen 
are  temporal,  but  the  things  which  are  unseen  are 
spiritual.'*  To  those  who  wish  to  try  the  effect  of 
such  stories  on  children,  I  present  for  their  encour- 
agement the  following  lines  from  James  Whitcomb 
Riley: 

THE  TREASURE  OF  THE  WISE  MAN  ^ 

Oh,  the  night  was  dark  and  the  night  was  late, 

When  the  robbers  came  to  rob  him; 

And  they  picked  the  lock  of  his  palace-gate, 

The  robbers  who  came  to  rob  him — 

They  picked  the  lock  of  the  palace-gate. 

Seized  his  jewels  and  gems  of  State, 

His  coffers  of  gold  and  his  priceless  plate, — 

The  robbers  that  came  to  rob  him. 

But  loud  laughed  he  in  the  morning  red! — 
For  of  what  had  the  robbers  robbed  him? 
Ho !  hidden  safe,  as  he  slept  in  bed. 
When  the  robbers  came  to  rob  him, — 
They  robbed  him  not  of  a  golden  shred 
Of  the  childish  dreams  in  his  wise  old  head — 
"And  they're  welcome  to  all  things  else,"  he  said. 
When  the  robbers  came  to  rob  him. 

*From  "The  Lockerbie  Book,"  by  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
copyright,  191 1.  Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers, 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  this  romantic  spirit,  com- 
bined with  a  delightful  sense  of  irresponsibility, 
which  I  claim  above  all  things  for  small  children,  to 
be  found  in  our  old  nursery  rhymes.  I  quote  from 
the  following  article  written  by  the  Rev.  R.  L.  Gales 
for  the  Nation. 

After  speaking  on  the  subject  of  fairy  stories  be- 
ing eliminated  from  the  school  curriculum,  the 
writer  adds : 

"This  would  be  lessening  the  joy  of  the  world 
and  taking  from  generations  yet  unborn  the  capacity 
for  wonder,  the  power  to  take  a  large  unselfish  in- 
terest in  the  spectacle  of  things,  and  putting  them 
forever  at  the  mercy  of  small  private  cares. 

"A  nursery  rhyme  is  the  most  sane,  the  most  un- 
selfish thing  in  the  world.  It  calls  up  some  delight- 
ful image — a  little  nut-tree  with  a  silver  walnut  and 
a  golden  pear;  some  romantic  adventure  only  for 
the  child's  delight  and  liberation  from  the  bondage 
of  unseeing  dullness :  it  brings  before  the  mind  the 
quintessence  of  some  good  thing: 

"  The  little  dog  laughed  to  see  such  sport' — 
there  is  the  soul  of  good  humor,  of  sanity,  of  health 
in  the  laughter  of  that  innocently  wicked  little  dog. 
It  is  the  laughter  of  pure  frolic  without  unkindness. 
To  have  laughed  with  the  little  dog  as  a  child  is  the 
best  preservative  against  mirthless  laughter  in  later 
years — the  horse  laughter  of  brutality,  the  ugly 
laughter  of  spite,  the  acrid  laughter  of  fanaticism. 

114 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

The  world  of  nursery  rhymes,  the  old  world  of  Mrs. 
Slipper-Slopper,  is  the  world  of  natural  things,  of 
quick,  healthy  motion,  of  the  joy  of  living. 

"In  nursery  rhymes  the  child  is  entertained  with 
all  the  pageant  of  the  world.  It  walks  in  fairy  gar- 
dens, and  for  it  the  singing  birds  pass.  All  the 
King's  horses  and  all  the  King's  men  pass  before  it 
in  their  glorious  array.  Craftsmen  of  all  sorts,  bak- 
ers, confectioners,  silversmiths,  blacksmiths  are 
busy  for  it  with  all  their  arts  and  mysteries,  as  at 
the  court  of  an  eastern  King." 

In  insisting  upon  the  value  of  this  escape  from 
the  commonplace,  I  cannot  prove  the  importance  of 
it  more  clearly  than  by  showing  what  may  happen  to 
a  child  who  is  deprived  of  his  birthright  by  having 
none  of  the  fairy  tale  element  presented  to  him.  In 
"Father  and  Son,"  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  says : 

"Meanwhile,  capable  as  I  was  of  reading,  I  found 
my  greatest  pleasure  in  the  pages  of  books.  The 
range  of  these  was  limited,  for  storybooks  of  every 
description  were  sternly  excluded.  No  fiction  of 
any  kind,  religious  or  secular,  was  admitted  into  the 
house.  In  this  it  was  to  my  Mother,  not  to  my 
Father,  that  the  prohibition  was  due.  She  had  a 
remarkable,  I  confess,  to  me  somewhat  unaccount- 
able impression  that  to  'tell  a  story,'  that  is,  to  com- 
pose fictitious  narrative  of  any  kind,  was  a  sin.  .  .  . 
Nor  would  she  read  the  chivalrous  tales  in  the  verse 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  obstinately  alleging  that  they 

115 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

were  not  true.  She  would  read  nothing  but  lyrical 
and  subjective  poetry.  As  a  child,  however,  she  had 
possessed  a  passion  for  making  up  stories,  and  so 
considerable  a  skill  in  it,  that  she  was  constantly 
being  begged  to  indulge  others  with  its  exercise. 
.  .  .  *When  I  was  a  very  little  child,'  she  says,  *I 
used  to  amuse  myself  and  my  brothers  with  in- 
venting stories  such  as  I  had  read.  Having,  I 
suppose,  a  naturally  restless  mind  and  busy  imagi- 
nation, this  soon  became  the  chief  pleasure  of  my 
life.  Unfortunately,  my  brothers  were  always  fond 
of  encouraging  this  propensity,  and  I  found  in  Tay- 
lor, my  maid,  a  still  greater  tempter.  I  had  not 
known  there  was  any  harm  in  it,  until  Miss  Shore, 
a  Calvinistic  governess,  finding  it  out,  lectured  me 
severely  and  told  me  it  was  wicked.  From  that 
time  forth,  I  considered  that  to  invent  a  story  of 
any  kind  was  a  sin.  .  .  .  But  the  longing  to  do  so 
grew  with  violence.  .  .  .  The  simplicity  of  Truth 
was  not  enough  for  me.  I  must  needs  embroider  im- 
agination upon  it,  and  the  vanity  and  wickedness 
which  disgraced  my  heart  are  more  than  I  am  able  to 
express.'  This  [the  author,  her  son,  adds]  is  surely 
a  very  painful  instance  of  the  repression  of  an  in- 
stinct." 

In  contrast  to  the  stifling  of  the  imagination,  it 
is  good  to  recall  the  story  of  the  great  Hermite  who, 
having  listened  to  the  discussion  of  the  Monday 
sitting  at  the  Academic  des  Sciences  (Institut  de 

ii6 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

France)  as  to  the  best  way  to  teach  the  "young  idea 
how  to  shoot"  in  the  direction  of  mathematical 
genius,  said:  "Ciiltivez  V imagination,  messieurs. 
Tout  est  la.  Si  vous  voides  des  mathematiciens, 
donnes  a  vos  enfants  a  lire — des  Contes  de  Fees." 

Another  important  effect  of  the  story  is  to  de- 
velop at  an  early  age  sympathy  for  children  of  other 
countries  where  conditions  are  different  from  our 
own. 

I  have  so  constantly  to  deal  with  the  question  of 
confusion  between  truth  and  fiction  in  the  minds  of 
children  that  it  might  be  useful  to  offer  here  an  ex- 
ample of  the  way  they  make  the  distinction  for 
themselves. 

Mrs.  Ewing  says  on  this  subject : 

"If  there  are  young  intellects  so  imperfect  as  to 
be  incapable  of  distinguishing  between  fancy  and 
falsehood,  it  is  most  desirable  to  develop  in  them 
the  power  to  do  so,  but,  as  a  rule,  in  childhood,  we 
appreciate  the  distinction  with  a  vivacity  which  as 
elders  our  care-clogged  memories  fail  to  recall." 

Mr.  P.  A.  Barnett,  in  his  book  on  the  "Common- 
sense  of  Education,"  says,  alluding  to  fairy-tales: 

"Children  will  act  them  but  not  act  upon  them, 
and  they  will  not  accept  the  incidents  as  part  of  their 
effectual  belief.  They  will  imagine,  to  be  sure,  gro- 
tesque worlds,  full  of  admirable  and  interesting  per- 
sonages to  whom  strange  things  might  have  hap- 
pened.   So  much  the  better :  this  largeness  of  imag- 

117 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

ination  is  one  of  the  possessions  that  distinguish 
the  better  nurtured  child  from  others  less  fortu- 
nate." 

The  following  passage  from  Stevenson's  essay  on 
*' Child  Play*  -^  will  furnish  an  instance  of  children's 
aptitude  for  creating  their  own  dramatic  atmo- 
sphere : 

"When  my  cousin  and  I  took  our  porridge  of  a 
morning,  we  had  a  device  to  enliven  the  course  of  a 
meal.  He  ate  his  with  sugar,  and  explained  it  to 
be  a  country  continually  buried  under  snow.  I  took 
mine  with  milk,  and  explained  it  to  be  a  country  suf- 
fering gradual  inundation.  You  can  imagine  us  ex- 
changing bulletins;  how  here  was  an  island  still 
unsubmerged,  here  a  valley  not  yet  covered  with 
snow ;  what  inventions  were  made ;  how  his  popula- 
tion lived  in  cabins  on  perches  and  traveled  on  stilts, 
and  how  mine  was  always  in  boats ;  how  the  interest 
grew  furious  as  the  last  corner  of  safe  ground  was 
cut  oflF  on  all  sides  and  grew  smaller  every  moment ; 
and  how,  in  fine,  the  food  was  of  altogether  sec- 
ondary importance,  and  might  even  have  been  nause- 
ous, so  long  as  we  seasoned  it  with  these  dreams. 
But  perhaps  the  most  exciting  moments  I  ever  had 
over  a  meal  were  in  the  case  of  calf's  foot  jelly.  It 
was  hardly  possible  not  to  believe — and  you  may  be 
quite  sure,  so  far  from  trying,  I  did  all  I  could  to 
favor  the  illusion — that  some  part  of  it  was  hollow, 

*  From  "Virginibus  Puerisque." 

ii8 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

and  that  sooner  or  later  my  spoon  would  lay  open  the 
secret  tabernacle  of  that  golden  rock.  There,  might 
some  Red-Beard  await  his  hour;  there  might  one 
find  the  treasures  of  the  Forty  Thieves.  And  so  I 
quarried  on  slowly,  with  bated  breath,  savoring  the 
interest.  Believe  me,  I  had  little  palate  left  for  the 
jelly;  and  though  I  preferred  the  taste  when  I  took 
cream  with  it,  I  used  often  to  go  without  because  the 
cream  dimmed  the  transparent  fractures." 

In  his  work  on  "Imagination,"  Ribot  says :  "The 
free  initiative  of  children  is  always  superior  to  the 
imitations  we  pretend  to  make  for  them." 

The  passage  from  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  be- 
comes more  clear  from  a  scientific  point  of  view 
when  taken  in  connection  with  one  from  Karl 
Groos'  book  on  the  ''Psychology  of  Animal 
Play" : 

"The  child  is  wholly  absorbed  in  his  play,  and  yet 
under  the  ebb  and  flow  of  thought  and  feeling  like 
still  water  under  wind-swept  waves,  he  has  the 
knowledge  that  it  is  pretense  after  all.  Behind  the 
sham  T'  that  takes  part  in  the  game,  stands  the  un- 
changed T'  which  regards  the  sham  T'  with  quiet 
superiority." 

Queyrat  speaks  of  play  as  one  of  the  distinct 
phases  of  a  child's  imagination;  it  is  "essentially  a 
metamorphosis  of  reality,  a  transformation  of  places 
and  things." 

Now,  to  return  to  the  point  which  Mrs.  Ewing 
119 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

makes,  namely,  that  we  should  develop  in  normal 
children  the  power  of  distinguishing  between  truth 
and  falsehood. 

I  should  suggest  including  two  or  three  stories 
which  would  test  that  power  in  children,  and  if  they 
fail  to  realize  the  difference  between  romancing  and 
telling  lies,  then  it  is  evident  that  they  need  special 
attention  and  help  along  this  line.  I  give  the  titles 
of  two  stories  of  this  kind  in  the  collection  at  the 
end  of  the  book.^ 

Thus  far  we  have  dealt  only  with  the  negative  re- 
sults of  stories,  but  there  are  more  important  effects, 
and  I  am  persuaded  that  if  we  are  careful  in  our 
choice  of  stories,  and  artistic  in  our  presentation,  so 
that  the  truth  is  framed,  so  to  speak,  in  the  mem- 
ory, we  can  unconsciously  correct  evil  tendencies  in 
children  which  they  recognize  in  themselves  only 
when  they  have  already  criticized  them  in  the  char- 
acters of  the  story.  I  have  sometimes  been  misun- 
derstood on  this  point,  and,  therefore,  I  should  like 
to  make  it  quite  clear.  I  do  not  mean  that  stories 
should  take  the  place  entirely  of  moral  or  direct 
teaching,  but  that  on  many  occasions  they  could  sup- 
plement and  strengthen  moral  teaching,  because  the 
dramatic  appeal  to  the  imagination  is  quicker  than 
the  moral  appeal  to  the  conscience.  A  child  will 
often  resist  the  latter  lest  it  should  make  him  un- 
comfortable or  appeal  to  his  personal  sense  of  re- 

'See  "Long  Bow  Story;"  "John  and  the  Pig." 
120 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

sponsibility :  it  is  often  not  in  his  power  to  resist  the 
former,  because  it  has  taken  possession  of  him  be- 
fore he  is  aware  of  it. 

As  a  concrete  example,  I  offer  three  verses  from 
a  poem  entitled,  "A  Ballad  for  a  Boy,"  written  some 
twelve  years  ago  by  W.  Cory,  an  Eton  master.  The 
whole  poem  is  to  be  found  in  a  book  of  poems  known 
as  "lonica."  ^ 

The  poem  describes  a  fight  between  two  ships,  the 
French  ship,  Temeraire,  and  the  English  ship,  Que- 
bee.  The  English  ship  was  destroyed  by  fire;  Far- 
mer, the  captain,  was  killed,  and  the  officers  taken 
prisoners : 

They  dealt  with  us  as  brethren,  they  mourned  for  Farmer 

dead. 
And  as  the  wounded  captives  passed  each  Breton  bowed 

the  head. 
Then  spoke  the  French  lieutenant : 
"  'Twas  the  fire  that  won,  not  we. 
You  never  struck  your  flag  to  us; 
You'll  go  to  England  free."  ^ 

'Twas    the    sixth    day    of    October,    seventeen    hundred 

seventy-nine, 
A  year  when  nations  ventured  against  us  to  combine, 

^  Published  by  George  Allen  &  Co. 

'  This  is  even  a  higher  spirit  than  that  shown  in  the  advice 
given  in  the  "Agamemnon"  (speaking  of  the  victor's  attitude 
after  the  taking  of  Troy)  : 

"Yea,  let  no  craving  for  forbidden  gain 
Bid  conquerors  yield  before  the  darts  of  greed." 
121 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Quebec  was  burned  and  Farmer  slain,  by  us  remembered 
not; 

But  thanks  be  to  the  French  book  wherein  they're  not  for- 
got. 

And  you,  if  you've  to  fight  the  French,  my  youngster,  bear 

in  mind 
Those  seamen  of  King  Louis  so  chivalrous  and  kind; 
Think  of  the   Breton   gentlemen  who   took  our  lads  to 

Brest, 
And  treat  some  rescued  Breton  as  a  comrade  and  a  guest. 

But  in  all  our  stories,  in  order  to  produce  desired 
effects  we  must  refrain  from  holding,  as  Burroughs 
says,  "a  brief  for  either  side,"  and  we  must  let  the 
people  in  the  story  be  judged  by  their  deeds  and  leave 
the  decision  of  the  children  free  in  this  matter.^ 

In  a  review  of  Ladd's  "Psychology"  in  the  Acad- 
emy, we  find  a  passage  which  refers  as  much  to  the 
story  as  to  the  novel : 

"The  psychological  novelist  girds  up  his  loins  and 
sets  himself  to  write  little  essays  on  each  of  his 
characters.  H  he  have  the  gift  of  the  thing  he  may 
analyze  motives  with  a  subtlety  which  is  more  than 
their  desert,  and  exhibit  simple  folk  passing  through 
the  most  dazzling  rotations.  If  he  be  a  novice,  he  is 
reduced  to  mere  crude  invention — the  result  in  both 

*It  is  curious  to  find  that  the  story  of  "Puss-in-Boots"  in 
its  variants  is  sometimes  presented  with  a  moral,  sometimes 
without.  In  the  Valley  of  the  Ganges  it  has  tione.  In  Cash- 
mere it  has  one  moral,  in  Zanzibar  another. 

122 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

cases  is  quite  beyond  the  true  purpose  of  Art.  Art 
— when  all  is  said  and  done — is  a  suggestion,  and  it 
refuses  to  be  explained.  Make  it  obvious,  unfold  it 
in  detail,  and  you  reduce  it  to  a  dead  letter." 

Again,  there  is  a  sentence  by  Schopenhauer  ap- 
plied to  novels  which  would  apply  equally  well  to 
stories : 

''Skill  consists  in  setting  the  inner  life  in  motion 
with  the  smallest  possible  array  of  circumstances, 
for  it  is  this  inner  life  that  excites  our  interest." 

In  order  to  produce  an  encouraging  and  lasting 
effect  by  means  of  our  stories,  we  should  be  careful 
to  introduce  a  certain  number  from  fiction  where 
virtue  is  rewarded  and  vice  punished,  because  to  ap- 
preciate the  fact  that  "virtue  is  its  own  reward"  it 
takes  a  developed  and  philosophic  mind,  or  a  born 
saint,  of  whom  there  will  not,  I  think,  be  many 
among  normal  children:  a  comforting  fact,  on  the 
whole,  as  the  normal  teacher  is  apt  to  confuse  them 
with  prigs. 

A  grande  dame  visiting  an  elementary  school  lis- 
tened to  the  telling  of  an  exciting  story  from  fiction, 
and  was  impressed  by  the  thrill  of  delight  which 
passed  through  the  children.  But  when  the  story 
was  finished,  she  said:  "But  oh!  what  a  pity  the 
story  was  not  taken  from  actual  history!" 

Now,  not  only  was  this  comment  quite  beside  the 
mark,  but  the  lady  in  question  did  not  realize  that 
pure  fiction  has  one  quality  which  history  cannot 

123 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

have.  The  historian,  bound  by  fact  and  accuracy, 
must  often  let  his  hero  come  to  grief.  The  poet  (or, 
in  this  case  we  may  call  him,  in  the  Greek  sense,  the 
"maker"  of  stories)   strives  to  show^  ideal  justice. 

What  encouragement  to  virtue,  except  for  the  ab- 
normal child,  can  be  offered  by  the  stories  of  good 
men  coming  to  grief,  such  as  we  find  in  Miltiades, 
Phocion,  Socrates,  Severus,  Cicero,  Cato  and 
Caesar? 

Sir  Philip  Sydney  says  in  his  "Defence  of  Poesy" : 

"Only  the  poet  declining  to  be  held  by  the  limita- 
tions of  the  lawyer,  the  historian,  the  grammarian, 
the  rhetorician,  the  logician,  the  physician,  the  meta- 
physician is  lifted  up  with  the  vigor  of  his  own 
imagination ;  doth  grow  in  effect  into  another  nature 
in  making  things  either  better  than  Nature  bringeth 
forth  or  quite  anew,  as  the  Heroes,  Demi-gods,  Cy- 
clops, Furies  and  such  like,  so  as  he  goeth  hand-in- 
hand  with  Nature,  not  inclosed  in  the  narrow  range 
of  her  gifts  but  freely  ranging  within  the  Zodiac 
of  his  own  art — her  world  is  brazen ;  the  poet  only 
delivers  a  golden  one." 

The  effect  of  the  story  need  not  stop  at  the  nega- 
tive task  of  correcting  evil  tendencies.  There  is  the 
positive  effect  of  translating  the  abstract  ideal  of 
the  story  into  concrete  action. 

I  was  told  by  Lady  Henry  Somerset  that  when 
the  first  set  of  children  came  down  from  London  for 
a  fortnight's  holiday  in  the  country,  she  was  much 

124 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

startled  and  shocked  by  the  obscenity  of  the  games 
they  played  amongst  themselves.  Being  a  sound 
psychologist,  Lady  Henry  wisely  refrained  from 
appearing  surprised  or  from  attempting  any  direct 
method  of  reproof.  *'I  saw,"  she  said,  "that  the 
'goody'  element  would  have  no  effect,  so  I  changed 
the  whole  atmosphere  by  reading  to  them  or  telling 
them  the  most  thrilling  medieval  tales  without  any 
commentary.  By  the  end  of  the  fortnight  the  ac- 
tivities had  all  changed.  The  boys  were  performing 
astonishing  deeds  of  prowess,  and  the  girls  were  al- 
lowing themselves  to  be  rescued  from  burning 
towers  and  fetid  dungeons."  Now,  if  these  deeds 
of  chivalry  appear  somewhat  stilted  to  us,  we  can  at 
least  realize  that,  having  changed  the  whole  at- 
mosphere of  the  filthy  games,  it  is  easier  to  translate 
the  deeds  into  something  a  little  more  in  accordance 
with  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and  boys  will  more  readily 
wish  later  on  to  save  their  sisters  from  dangers 
more  sordid  and  commonplace  than  fiery  towers  and 
dark  dungeons,  if  they  have  once  performed  the 
deeds  in  which  they  had  to  court  danger  and  self- 
sacrifice  for  themselves. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  question  as  to  how  these 
effects  are  to  be  maintained.  In  what  has  already 
been  stated  as  to  the  danger  of  introducing  the  dog- 
matic and  direct  appeal  into  the  story,  it  is  evident 
that  the  avoidance  of  this  element  is  the  first  means 
of  preserving  the  story  in  all  its  artistic  force  in  the 

125 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

memory  of  the  child.  We  must  be  careful,  as  I 
point  out  in  the  chapter  on  Questions,  not  to  inter- 
fere by  comment  or  question  with  the  atmosphere 
we  have  made  round  the  story,  or  else,  in  the  future, 
that  story  will  become  blurred  and  overlaid  with  the 
remembrance,  not  of  the  artistic  whole,  as  presented 
by  the  teller  of  the  story,  but  by  some  unimportant 
small  side  issue  raised  by  an  irrelevant  question  or  a 
superfluous  comment. 

Many  people  think  that  the  dramatization  of  the 
story  by  the  children  themselves  helps  to  maintain 
the  effect  produced.  Personally,  I  fear  there  is  the 
same  danger  as  in  the  immediate  reproduction  of  the 
story,  namely,  that  the  general  dramatic  effect  may 
be  weakened. 

If,  however,  there  is  to  be  dramatization  (and  I 
do  not  wish  to  dogmatize  on  the  subject),  I  think  it 
should  be  confined  to  facts  and  not  fancies,  and  this 
is  why  I  realize  the  futility  of  the  dramatization  of 
fairy  tales. 

Horace  E.  Scudder  says  on  this  subject : 

"Nothing  has  done  more  to  vulgarize  the  fairy 
than  its  introduction  on  the  stage.  The  charm  of  the 
fairy  tale  is  its  divorce  from  human  experience :  the 
charm  of  the  stage  is  its  realization  in  miniature  of 
human  life.  If  a  frog  is  heard  to  speak,  if  a  dog  is 
changed  before  our  eyes  into  a  prince  by  having  cold 
water  dashed  over  it,  the  charm  of  the  fairy  tale  has 
fled,  and,  in  its  place,  we  have  the  perplexing  pleas- 

126 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

ure  of  legerdemain.  Since  the  real  life  of  a  fairy 
is  in  the  imagination,  a  wrong  is  committed  when  it 
is  dragged  from  its  shadowy  hiding-place  and  made 
to  turn  into  ashes  under  the  calcium  light  of  the 
understanding."  ^ 

I  am  bound  to  admit  that  the  teachers  have  a  case 
when  they  plead  for  this  reproducing  of  the  story, 
and  there  are  three  arguments  they  use  the  validity 
of  which  I  admit,  but  which  have  nevertheless  not 
converted  me,  because  the  loss,  to  my  mind,  would 
exceed  the  gain. 

The  first  argument  they  put  forward  is  that  the 
reproduction  of  the  story  enables  the  child  to  en- 
large and  improve  his  vocabulary.  Now  I  greatly 
sympathize  with  this  point  of  view,  but,  as  I  regard 
the  story  hour  as  a  very  precious  and  special  one, 
which  I  think  may  have  a  lasting  effect  on  the  char- 
acter of  a  child,  I  do  not  think  it  important  that, 
during  this  hour,  a  child  should  be  called  upon  to 
improve  his  vocabulary  at  the  expense  of  the  dra- 
matic whole,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  literary  form 
in  which  the  story  has  been  presented.  It  would  be 
like  using  the  Bible  for  parsing  or  paraphrase  or  pro- 
nunciation. So  far,  I  believe,  the  line  has  been 
drawn  here,  though  there  are  blasphemers  who  have 
laid  impious  hands  on  Milton  or  Shakespeare  for 
this  purpose. 

*From  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  in  "Childhood  in  Litera- 
ture and  Art." 

127 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

There  are  surely  other  lessons,  as  I  have  already 
said  in  dealing  with  the  reproduction  of  the  story 
quite  apart  from  the  dramatization,  lessons  more 
utilitarian  in  character,  which  can  be  used  for  this 
purpose :  the  facts  of  history  (I  mean  the  mere  facts 
as  compared  with  the  deep  truths),  and  those  of 
geography.  Above  all,  the  grammar  lessons  are 
those  in  which  the  vocabulary  can  be  enlarged  and 
improved.  But  I  am  anxious  to  keep  the  story  hour 
apart  as  dedicated  to  something  higher  than  these 
excellent  but  utilitarian  considerations. 

The  second  argument  used  by  the  teachers  is  the 
joy  felt  by  the  children  in  being  allowed  to  dramatize 
the  stories.  This,  too,  appeals  very  strongly  to  me, 
but  there  is  a  means  of  satisfying  their  desire  and 
yet  protecting  the  dramatic  whole,  and  that  is  oc- 
casionally to  allow  children  to  act  out  their  own  dra- 
matic inventions;  this,  to  my  mind,  has  great  edu- 
cational significance  :  it  is  original  and  creative  work 
and,  apart  fi^om  the  joy  of  the  immediate  perform- 
ance, there  is  the  interesting  process  of  comparison 
which  can  be  presented  to  the  children,  showing 
them  the  difference  between  their  elementary  at- 
tempts and  the  finished  product  of  the  experienced 
artist.  This  difference  they  can  be  led  to  recognize 
by  their  own  powers  of  observation  if  the  teach- 
ers are  not  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  point  it  out  them- 
selves. 

Here  is  a  short  original  story,  quoted  by  the 
128 


I 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

French  psychologist,  Queyrat,  in  his  "J^^^  ^^  TEn- 
fance,"  written  by  a  child  of  five : 

"One  day  I  went  to  sea  in  a  life-boat — all  at  once 
I  saw  an  enormous  whale,  and  I  jumped  out  of  the 
boat  to  catch  him,  but  he  was  so  big  that  I  climbed 
on  his  back  and  rode  astride,  and  all  the  little  fishes 
laughed  to  see." 

Here  is  a  complete  and  exciting  drama,  making  a 
wonderful  picture  and  teeming  with  adventure.  We 
could  scarcely  offer  anything  to  so  small  a  child  for 
reproduction  that  would  be  a  greater  stimulus  to  the 
imagination.  ' 

Here  is  another,  offered  by  Loti,  but  the  age  of 
the  child  is  not  given : 

/'Once  upon  a  time  a  little  girl  out  in  the  Colonies 
cut  open  a  huge  melon,  and  out  popped  a  green  beast 
and  stung  her,  and  the  little  child  died." 

Loti  adds: 

"The  phrases  'out  in  the  Colonies*  and  *a  huge 
melon'  were  enough  to  plunge  me  suddenly  into  a 
dream.  As  by  an  apparition,  I  beheld  tropical  trees, 
forests  alive  with  marvelous  birds.  Oh !  the  simple 
magic  of  the  words  *the  Colonies' !  In  my  childhood 
they  stood  for  a  multitude  of  distant  sun-scorched 
countries,  with  their  palm-trees,  their  enormous 
flowers,  their  black  natives,  their  wild  beasts,  their 
endless  possibilities  of  adventure." 

I  quote  this  in  full  because  it  shows  so  clearly  the 
magic  force  of  words  to  evoke  pictures,  without  any 

129 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

material  representation.  It  is  just  the  opposite  ef- 
fect of  the  pictures  presented  to  the  bodily  eye  with- 
out the  splendid  educational  opportunity  for  the 
child  to  form  his  own  mental  image. 

I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that  the  rare 
power  of  visualization  is  accounted  for  by  the  lack 
of  mental  practice  afforded  along  these  lines. 

The  third  argument  used  by  the  teachers  in  favor 
of  the  dramatization  of  the  stories  is  that  it  is  a 
means  of  discovering  how  much  the  child  has  really 
learned  from  the  story.  Now  this  argument  makes 
absolutely  no  appeal  to  me. 

My  experience,  in  the  first  place,  has  taught  me 
that  a  child  very  seldom  gives  out  any  account  of  a 
deep  impression  made  upon  him :  it  is  too  sacred  and 
personal.  But  he  very  soon  learns  to  know  what  is 
expected  of  him,  and  he  keeps  a  set  of  stock  sen- 
tences which  he  has  found  out  are  acceptable  to  the 
teacher.  How  can  we  possibly  gauge  the  deep  ef- 
fects of  a  story  in  this  way,  or  how  can  a  child,  by 
acting  out  a  story,  describe  the  subtle  elements  which 
one  has  tried  to  introduce?  One  might  as  well  try 
to  show  with  a  pint  measure  how  the  sun  and  rain 
have  affected  a  plant,  instead  of  rejoicing  in  the 
beauty  of  the  sure,  if  slow,  growth. 

Then,  again,  why  are  we  in  such  a  hurry  to  find 
out  what  effects  have  been  produced  by  our  stories  ? 
Does  it  matter  whether  we  know  today  or  tomorrow 
how  much  a  child  has  understood?    For  my  part, 

130 


HOW  TO  OBTAIN  EFFECT  OF  THE  STORY 

so  sure  do  I  feel  of  the  effect  that  I  am  wilHng  to 
wait  indefinitely.  Only,  I  must  make  sure  that  the 
first  presentation  is  truly  dramatic  and  artistic. 

The  teachers  of  general  subjects  have  a  much 
easier  and  more  simple  task.  Those  who  teach  sci- 
ence, mathematics,  even,  to  a  certain  extent,  history 
and  literature,  are  able  to  gauge  with  a  fair  amount 
of  accuracy  by  means  of  examination  what  their 
pupils  have  learned.  The  teaching  carried  on  by 
means  of  stories  can  never  be  gauged  in  the  same 
manner. 

Carlyle  has  said : 

"Of  this  thing  be  certain:  wouldst  thou  plant  for 
Eternity,  then  plant  Into  the  deep  Infinite  faculties 
of  man,  his  Fantasy  and  Heart.  Wouldst  thou  plant 
for  Year  and  Day,  then  plant  into  his  shallow  super- 
ficial faculties,  his  self-love  and  arithmetical  under- 
standing, what  will  grow  there.'^  ^ 

n  we  use  this  marvelous  art  of  story-telling  in 
the  way  I  have  tried  to  show,  then  the  children  who 
have  been  confided  to  our  care  will  one  day  be  able 
to  bring  to  us  the  tribute  which  Bjornson  brought 
to  Hans  Christian  Andersen : 

Wings  you  gave  to  my  Imagination, 
Me  uplifting  to  the  strange  and  great; 

Gave  my  heart  the  poet's  revelation. 
Glorifying  things  of  low  estate. 

*  "Sartor  Resartus,"  Book  III,  page  218. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

When  my  child-soul  hungered  all-unknowing, 
With  great  truths  its  need  you  satisfied: 

Now,  a  world-worn  man,  to  you  is  owing 
That  the  child  in  me  has  never  died. 

Translated  from  the  Danish  by  Emilie  Poulson. 


CHAPTER   VII 

QUESTIONS   ASKED   BY   TEACHERS 

The  following  questions  have  been  put  to  me  so 
often  by  teachers,  in  my  own  country  and  in  Amer- 
ica, that  I  have  thought  it  might  be  useful  to  give  in 
my  book  some  of  the  attempts  I  have  made  to  an- 
swer them ;  and  I  wish  to  record  here  an  expression 
of  gratitude  to  the  teachers  who  have  asked  these 
questions  at  the  close  of  my  lectures.  It  has  enabled 
me  to  formulate  my  views  on  the  subject  and  to  clear 
up,  by  means  of  research  and  thought,  the  reason  for 
certain  things  which  I  had  more  or  less  taken  for 
granted.  It  has  also  constantly  modified  my  own 
point  of  view,  and  has  prevented  me  from  becoming 
too  dogmatic  in  dealing  with  other  people's  methods. 

Question  I :  Why  do  I  consider  it  necessary  to 
spend  so  many  years  on  the  art  of  story-felling, 
which  takes  in,  after  all,  sitch  a  restricted  portion  of 
literature? 

Just  in  the  same  way  that  an  actor  thinks  it  worth 
while  to  go  through  so  many  years'  training  to  fit 
him  for  the  stage,  although  dramatic  literature  is 

133 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

also  only  one  branch  of  general  literature.  The 
region  of  story  land  is  the  legitimate  stage  for  chil- 
dren. They  crave  drama  as  we  do,  and  because 
there  are  comparatively  few  good  story-tellers,  chil- 
dren do  not  have  their  dramatic  needs  satisfied. 
What  is  the  result?  We  either  take  them  to  dra- 
matic performances  for  grown-up  people,  or  we  have 
children's  theaters  where  the  pieces,  charming  as 
they  may  be,  are  of  necessity  deprived  of  the  essen- 
tial elements  which  constitute  a  drama — or  they  are 
shriveled  up  to  suit  the  capacity  of  the  child.  There- 
fore, it  would  seem  wiser,  while  the  children  are 
quite  young,  to  keep  them  to  the  simple  presentation 
of  stories,  because  with  their  imagination  keener  at 
that  period,  they  have  the  delight  of  the  inner  vision 
and  they  do  not  need,  as  we  do,  the  artificial  stimulus 
provided  by  the  machinery  of  the  stage. 

Question  H  :  What  is  to  be  done  if  a  child  asks 
you:    ''Is  the  story  true?" 

I  hope  I  shall  not  be  considered  Utopian  in  my 
ideas  if  I  say  that  it  is  quite  easy,  even  with  small 
children,  to  teach  them  that  the  seeing  of  truth  is  a 
relative  matter  which  depends  on  the  eyes  of  the 
seer.  If  we  were  not  afraid  to  tell  our  children  that 
all  through  life  there  are  grown-up  people  who  do 
not  see  things  that  others  see,  their  own  difficulties 
would  be  helped. 

In  his  ^'Imagination  Creatrice,"  Queyrat  says : 
134 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

'*To  get  down  into  the  recesses  of  a  child's  mind, 
one  would  have  to  become  even  as  he  is ;  we  are  re- 
duced to  interpreting  that  child  in  the  terms  of  an 
adult.  The  children  we  observe  live  and  grow  in  a 
civilized  community,  and  the  result  of  this  is  that 
the  development  of  their  imagination  is  rarely  free 
or  complete,  for  as  soon  as  it  rises  beyond  the  aver- 
age level,  the  rationalistic  education  of  parents  and 
schoolmasters  at  once  endeavors  to  curb  it.  It  is 
restrained  in  its  flight  by  an  antagonistic  power 
which  treats  it  as  a  kind  of  incipient  madness." 

It  is  quite  easy  to  show  children  that  if  one  keeps 
things  where  they  belong,  they  are  true  with  regard 
to  each  other,  but  that  if  one  drags  these  things  out 
of  the  shadowy  atmosphere  of  the  **make-believe,'* 
and  forces  them  into  the  land  of  actual  facts,  the 
whole  thing  is  out  of  gear. 

To  take  a  concrete  example :  The  arrival  of  the 
coach  made  from  a  pumpkin  and  driven  by  mice  is 
entirely  in  harmony  with  the  Cinderella  surround- 
ings, and  I  have  never  heard  one  child  raise  any 
question  of  the  difficulty  of  traveling  in  such  a  coach 
or  of  the  uncertainty  of  mice  in  drawing  it.  But, 
suggest  to  the  child  that  this  diminutive  vehicle  could 
be  driven  among  the  cars  of  Broadway,  or  amongst 
the  motor  omnibuses  in  the  Strand,  and  you  would 
bring  confusion  at  once  into  his  mind. 

Having  once  grasped  this,  the  children  will  lose 
the  idea  that  fairy  stories  are  just  for  them,  and  not 

135 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

for  their  elders,  and  from  this  they  will  go  on  to  see 
that  it  is  the  child-like  mind  of  the  poet  and  seer  that 
continues  to  appreciate  these  things;  that  it  is  the 
dull,  heavy  person  whose  eyes  so  soon  become  dim 
and  unable  to  see  any  more  the  visions  which  were 
once  his  own. 

In  his  essay  on  "Poetry  and  Life'*  (Glasgow, 
1889),  Professor  Bradley  says: 

"It  is  the  effect  of  poetry,  not  only  by  expressing 
emotion  but  in  other  ways  also,  to  bring  life  into  the 
dead  mass  of  our  experience,  and  to  make  the  world 
significant." 

This  applies  to  children  as  well  as  to  adults.  There 
may  come  to  the  child  in  the  story  hour,  by  some 
stirring  poem  or  dramatic  narration,  a  sudden  flash 
of  the  possibilities  of  life  which  he  had  not  hitherto 
realized  in  the  even  course  of  school  experience. 

"Poetry,"  says  Professor  Bradley,  "is  a  way  of 
representing  truth ;  but  there  is  in  it,  as  its  detractors 
have  always  insisted,  a  certain  untruth  or  illusion. 
We  need  not  deny  this,  so  long  as  we  remember  that 
the  illusion  is  conscious,  that  no  one  wishes  to  de- 
ceive, and  that  no  one  is  deceived.  But  it  would  be 
better  to  say  that  poetry  is  false  to  literal  fact  for 
the  sake  of  obtaining  a  higher  truth.  First,  in  order 
to  represent  the  connection  between  a  more  signifi- 
cant part  of  experience  and  a  less  significant,  poetry, 
instead  of  linking  them  together  by  a  chain  which 
touches    one    by    one    the    intermediate     objects 

136 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

that  connect  them,  leaps  from  one  to  the  other. 
It  thus  falls  at  once  into  conflict  with  common- 
sense." 

Now,  the  whole  of  this  passage  bears  as  much  on 
the  question  of  the  truth  embodied  in  a  fairy  tale  as 
a  poem,  and  it  would  be  interesting  to  take  some  of 
these  tales  and  try  to  discover  where  they  are  false 
to  actual  fact  for  the  sake  of  a  higher  truth. 

Let  us  take,  for  instance,  the  Story  of  Cinderella : 
The  coach  and  pumpkins  to  which  I  have  alluded, 
and  all  the  magic  part  of  the  story,  are  false  to  actual 
facts  as  we  meet  them  in  our  everyday  life ;  but  is  it 
not  a  higher  truth  that  Cinderella  could  escape  from 
her  chimney  corner  by  thinking  of  the  brightness 
outside?  In  this  sense  we  all  travel  in  pumpkin 
coaches. 

Take  the  Story  of  Psyche,  in  any  one  of  the  many 
forms  it  is  presented  to  us  in  folk-story.  The  magic 
transformation  of  the  lover  is  false  to  actual  fact ; 
but  is  it  not  a  higher  truth  that  we  are  often  trans- 
formed by  circumstance,  and  that  love  and  courage 
can  overcome  most  difficulties? 

Take  the  Story  of  the  Three  Bears.  It  is  not  in 
accordance  with  established  fact  that  bears  should 
extend  hospitality  to  children  who  invade  their  ter- 
ritory. Is  it  not  true  in  a  higher  sense  that  fearless- 
ness often  lessens  or  averts  danger? 

Take  the  Story  of  Jack  and  the  Bean  Stalk.  The 
rapid  growth  of  the  bean  stalk  and  the  encounter 

^37 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

with  the  giant  are  false  to  literal  fact ;  but  is  it  not  a 
higher  truth  that  the  spirit  of  courage  and  high  ad- 
venture leads  us  straight  out  of  the  commonplace 
and  often  sordid  facts  of  life? 

Now,  all  these  considerations  are  too  subtle  for 
the  child,  and,  if  offered  in  explanation,  would  de- 
stroy the  excitement  and  interest  of  the  story;  but 
they  are  good  for  those  of  us  who  are  presenting 
such  stories:  they  provide  not  only  an  argument 
against  the  objection  raised  by  unimaginative  people 
as  to  the  futility,  if  not  immorality,  of  presenting 
these  primitive  tales,  but  clear  up  our  own  doubt 
and  justify  us  in  the  use  of  them,  if  we  need  such 
justification. 

For  myself,  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  that,  being 
part  of  the  history  of  primitive  people,  it  would  be 
foolish  to  ignore  them  from  an  evolutionary  point 
of  view,  which  constitutes  their  chief  importance; 
and  it  is  only  from  the  point  of  view  of  expediency 
that  I  mention  the  potential  truths  they  contain. 

Question  HI:  What  are  yon  to  do  if  a  child 
says  he  does  not  like  fairy  tales? 

This  is  not  an  uncommon  case.  What  we  have 
first  to  determine,  under  these  circumstances,  is 
whether  this  dislike  springs  from  a  stolid,  prosaic 
nature,  whether  it  springs  from  a  real  inability  to 
visualize  such  pictures  as  the  fairy  or  marvelous  ele- 
ment in  the  story  presents,  or  whether  (and  this  is 

138 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

often  the  real  reason)  it  is  from  a  fear  of  being 
asked  to  believe  what  his  judgment  resents  as  un- 
true, or  whether  he  thinks  it  is  "grown-up"  to  reject 
such  pleasure  as  unworthy  of  his  years. 

In  the  first  case,  it  is  wise  to  persevere,  in  hopes 
of  developing  the  dormant  imagination.  If  the  child 
resents  the  apparent  want  of  truth,  we  can  teach  him 
how  many-sided  truth  is,  as  I  suggested  in  my  an- 
swer to  the  first  question.  In  the  other  cases,  we 
must  try  to  make  it  clear  that  the  delight  he  may 
venture  to  take  now  will  increase,  not  decrease,  with 
years ;  that  the  more  one  brings  to  a  thing,  in  the  way 
of  experience  and  knowledge,  the  more  one  will 
draw  out  of  it. 

Let  us  take  as  a  concrete  example  the  question  of 
Santa  Claus.  This  joy  has  almost  disappeared,  for 
we  have  torn  away  the  last  shred  of  mystery  about 
that  personage  by  allowing  him  to  be  materialized 
in  the  Christmas  shops  and  bazaars. 

But  the  original  myth  need  never  have  disap- 
peared ;  the  link  could  easily  have  been  kept  by  grad- 
ually telling  the  child  that  the  Santa  Claus  they  wor- 
shiped as  a  mysterious  and  invisible  power  is  nothing 
but  the  spirit  of  charity  and  kindness  that  makes  us 
remember  others,  and  that  this  spirit  often  takes  the 
form  of  material  gifts.  We  can  also  lead  them  a 
step  higher  and  show  them  that  this  spirit  of  kind- 
ness can  do  more  than  provide  material  things;  so 
that  the  old  nursery  tale  has  laid  a  beautiful  foun- 

139 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

dation  which  need  never  be  pulled  up :  we  can  build 
upon  it  and  add  to  it  all  through  our  lives. 

Is  not  one  of  the  reasons  that  children  reject  fairy- 
tales this,  that  such  very  poor  material  is  offered 
them?  There  is  a  dreary  flatness  about  all  except 
the  very  best  which  revolts  the  child  of  literary  ap- 
preciation and  would  fail  to  strike  a  spark  in  the 
more  prosaic. 

Question  IV :  Do  I  recommend  learning  a  story 
by  heart,  or  telling  it  in  one's  own  words  f 

This  would  largely  depend  on  the  kind  of  story. 
If  the  style  is  classic  or  if  the  interest  of  the  story  is 
closely  connected  with  the  style,  as  in  Andersen, 
Kipling  or  Stevenson,  then  it  is  better  to  commit  it 
g^solutely  to  memory.  But  if  this  process  should 
taUe  too  long  (I  mean  for  those  who  cannot  afford 
the  time  to  specialize),  or  if  it  produces  a  stilted 
effect,  then  it  is  wiser  to  read  the  story  many  times 
over,  let  it  soak  in,  taking  notes  of  certain  passages 
which  would  add  to  the  dramatic  interest  of  the 
story,  and  not  trouble  about  the  word  accuracy  of 
the  whole. 

For  instance,  for  very  young  children  the  story  of 
Pandora,  as  told  in  the  * 'Wonder-Book,"  could  be 
shortened  so  as  to  leave  principally  the  dramatic 
dialogue  between  the  two  children,  which  could  be 
easily  committed  to  memory  by  the  narrator  and 
would  appeal  most  directly  to  the  children.    Or  for 

140 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

older  children:  in  taking  a  beautiful  medieval  story- 
such  as  *'Our  Lady's  Tumbler,"  retold  by  Wick- 
stead,  the  original  text  could  hardly  be  presented  so 
as  to  hold  an  audience ;  but  while  giving  up  a  great 
deal  of  the  elaborate  material,  we  should  try  to  pre- 
sent many  of  the  characteristic  passages  which  seem 
to  sum  up  the  situation.  For  instance,  before  his 
performance,  the  Tumbler  cries :  "What  am  I  do- 
ing? For  there  is  none  here  so  caitiff  but  who  vies 
with  all  the  rest  in  serving  God  after  his  trade." 
And  after  his  act  of  devotion:  "Lady,  this  is  a 
choice  performance.  I  do  it  for  no  other  but  for 
you ;  so  aid  me  God,  I  do  not — for  you  and  for  your 
Son.  And  this  I  dare  avouch  and  boast,  that  for 
me  it  is  no  play-work.  But  I  am  serving  you,  and 
that  pays  me." 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  some  very  gifted 
narrators  who  can  only  tell  the  story  in  their  own 
words.  I  consider  that  both  methods  are  necessary 
to  the  all-round  story-teller. 

Question  V:  How  do  I  set  about  preparing  a 
story  F 

Here  again  the  preparation  depends  a  great  deal 
on  the  kind  of  story :  whether  it  has  to  be  committed 
to  memory  or  rearranged  to  suit  a  certain  age  of 
child,  or  told  entirely  in  one's  own  words.  But  there 
is  one  kind  of  preparation  which  is  the  same  for  any 
story,  that  is,  living  with  it  for  a  long  time,  until  one 

141 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

has  really  obtained  the  right  atmosphere,  and  then 
bringing  the  characters  actually  to  life  in  this  at- 
mosphere, especially  in  the  case  of  inanimate  ob- 
jects. This  is  where  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
reigns  supreme.  Horace  Scudder  says  of  him :  *'By 
some  transmigration,  souls  have  passed  into  tin  sol- 
diers, balls,  tops,  money-pigs,  coins,  shoes  and  even 
such  attenuated  things  as  darning-needles,  and  when, 
informing  these  apparent  dead  and  stupid  bodies, 
they  begin  to  make  manifestations,  it  is  always  in 
perfect  consistency  with  the  ordinary  conditions  of 
the  bodies  they  occupy,  though  the  several  objects 
become,  by  the  endowment  of  souls,  suddenly  ex- 
panded in  their  capacity."  ^ 

Now,  my  test  of  being  ready  with  such  stories  is 
whether  I  have  ceased  to  look  upon  such  objects  as 
inanimate.  Let  us  take  some  of  those  quoted  from 
Andersen.  First,  the  Tin  Soldier.  To  me,  since  I 
have  lived  in  the  story,  he  is  a  real  live  hero,  holding 
his  own  with  some  of  the  bravest  fighting  heroes  in 
history  or  fiction.  As  for  his  being  merely  of  tin,  I 
entirely  forget  it,  except  when  I  realize  against  what 
odds  he  fights,  or  when  I  stop  to  admire  the  wonder- 
ful way  Andersen  carries  out  his  simile  of  the  old 
tin  spoon — the  stiffness  of  the  musket,  and  the  tears 
of  tin. 

Take  the  Top  and  the  Ball,  and,  except  for  the  de- 
lightful way  they  discuss  the  respective  merits  of 

"■  From  "Childhood  in  Literature  and  Art." 
142 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

cork  and  mahogany  in  their  ancestors,  you  would 
completely  forget  that  they  are  not  real  human  be- 
ings with  the  live  passions  and  frailties  common  to 
youth. 

As  for  the  Beetle — who  ever  thinks  of  him  as  a 
mere  entomological  specimen  ?  Is  he  not  the  symbol 
of  the  self-satisfied  traveler  who  learns  nothing  en 
route  but  the  importance  of  his  own  personality? 
And  the  Darning-Nee  die?  It  is  impossible  to  di- 
vorce human  interest  from  the  ambition  of  this  little 
piece  of  steel. 

And  this  same  method  applied  to  the  preparation 
of  any  story  shows  that  one  can  sometimes  rise  from 
the  role  of  mere  interpreter  to  that  of  creator — that 
is  to  say,  the  objects  live  afresh  for  you  in  response 
to  the  appeal  you  make  in  recognizing  their  possi- 
bilities of  vitality. 

As  a  mere  practical  suggestion,  I  would  advise 
that,  as  soon  as  one  has  overcome  the  difficulties  of 
the  text  (if  actually  learning  by  heart,  there  is  noth- 
ing but  the  drudgery  of  constant  repetition),  and  as 
one  begins  to  work  the  story  into  true  dramatic 
form,  always  say  the  words  aloud,  and  many  times 
aloud,  before  trying  them  even  on  one  person.  More 
suggestions  come  to  one  in  the  way  of  effects  from 
hearing  the  sounds  of  the  words,  and  more  complete 
mental  pictures,  in  this  way  than  any  other — it  is  a 
sort  of  testing  period,  the  results  of  which  may  or 
may  not  have  to  be  modified  when  produced  in  pub- 

143 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

He.  In  case  of  eommitting  to  memory,  I  advise  word 
perfection  first,  not  trying  dramatic  effects  before 
this  is  reached;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  are 
using  your  own  words,  you  can  think  out  the  effects 
as  you  go  along — I  mean,  during  the  preparation. 
Gestures,  pauses,  facial  expression  often  help  to  fix 
the  choice  of  words  one  decides  to  use,  though  here 
again  the  public  performance  will  often  modify  the 
result.  I  strongly  advise  that  all  gestures  be  studied 
before  the  glass,  because  this  most  faithfully  record- 
ing friend,  whose  sincerity  we  dare  not  question, 
will  prevent  glaring  errors,  and  also  help  by  the 
correction  of  these  to  more  satisfactory  results  along 
positive  lines.  If  your  gesture  does  not  satisfy  you 
(and  practice  will  make  one  more  and  more  criti- 
cal), it  is  generally  because  you  have  not  made  suffi- 
cient allowance  for  the  power  of  imagination  in 
your  audience.  Emphasis  in  gesture  is  just  as  in- 
artistic— and  therefore  ineffective — as  emphasis  in 
tone  or  language. 

Before  deciding,  however,  either  on  the  facial  ex- 
pression or  gesture,  we  must  consider  the  chief  char- 
acters in  the  story,  and  study  how  we  can  best — not 
present  them,  but  allow  them  to  present  themselves, 
which  is  a  very  different  thing.  The  greatest  tribute 
which  can  be  paid  to  a  story-teller,  as  to  an  actor,  is 
that  his  own  personality  is  temporarily  forgotten, 
because  he  has  so  completely  identified  himself  with 
his  role. 

144 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

When  we  have  decided  what  the  chief  characters 
really  mean  to  do,  we  can  let  ourselves  go  in  the 
impersonation. 

I  shall  now  take  a  story  as  a  concrete  example, 
namely,  the  Buddhist  legend  of  the  "Lion  and  the 
Hare/*  i 

We  have  here  the  Lion  and  the  Hare  as  types — 
the  other  animals  are  less  individual  and  therefore 
display  less  salient  qualities.  The  little  hare's  chief 
characteristics  are  nervousness,  fussiness  and  mis- 
directed imagination.  We  must  bear  this  all  in  mind 
when  she  appears  on  the  stage — fortunately  these 
characteristics  lend  themselves  easily  to  dramatic 
representation.  The  Lion  is  not  only  large-hearted 
but  broad-minded.  It  is  good  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  presenting  to  the  children  a  lion  who  has  other 
qualities  than  physical  beauty  or  extraordinary 
strength  (here  again  there  will  lurk  the  danger  of 
alarming  the  nature  students).  He  is  even  more  in- 
teresting than  the  magnanimous  lion  whom  we  have 
sometimes  been  privileged  to  meet  in  fiction. 

Of  course  we  grown-up  people  know  that  the 
Lion  is  the  Buddha  in  disguise.  Children  will  not 
be  able  to  realize  this,  nor  is  it  the  least  necessary 
that  they  should  do  so ;  but  they  will  grasp  the  idea 
that  he  is  a  very  unusual  lion,  not  to  be  met  with  in 
Paul  Du  Chaillu's  adventures,  still  less  in  the  quasi- 
domestic  atmosphere  of  the  Zoological  Gardens.  If 
*  See  "Eastern  Stones  and  Fables,"  published  by  Routledge. 

145 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

our  presentation  is  life-like  and  sincere,  we  shall 
convey  all  we  intend  to  the  child.  This  is  part  of 
what  I  call  the  atmosphere  of  the  story,  which,  as  in 
a  photograph,  can  only  be  obtained  by  long  expo- 
sure, that  is  to  say,  in  the  case  of  preparation  we 
must  bestow  much  reflection  and  sympathy. 

Because  these  two  animals  are  the  chief  charac- 
ters, they  must  stand  out  in  sharp  outline :  the  other 
animals  must  be  painted  in  fainter  colors — they 
should  be  suggested  rather  than  presented  in  detail. 
It  might  be  as  well  to  give  a  definite  gesture  to  the 
Elephant — say,  a  characteristic  movement  with  his 
trunk — a  scowl  to  the  Tiger,  a  supercilious  and  enig- 
matic smile  to  the  Camel  (suggested  by  Kipling's 
wonderful  creation).  But  if  a  gesture  were  given 
to  each  of  the  animals,  the  effect  would  become  mo- 
notonous, and  the  minor  characters  would  crowd  the 
foreground  of  the  picture,  impeding  the  action  and 
leaving  little  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience.  I 
personally  have  found  it  effective  to  repeat  the  ges- 
tures of  these  animals  as  they  are  leaving  the 
stage,  but  less  markedly,  as  it  is  only  a  form  of  re- 
minder. 

Now,  what  is  the  impression  we  wish  to  leave  on 
the  mind  of  the  child,  apart  from  the  dramatic  joy 
^and  interest  we  have  endeavored  to  provide  ?  Surely 
it  is  that  he  may  realize  the  danger  of  a  panic.  One 
method  of  doing  this  (alas!  a  favorite  one  still)  is 
to  say  at  the  end  of  the  story :    ''Now,  children,  what 

146 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

do  we  learn  from  this  ?"  Of  this  method  Lord  Mor- 
ley  has  said :  "It  is  a  commonplace  to  the  wise, 
and  an  everlasting  puzzle  to  the  foolish,  that  direct 
inculcation  of  morals  should  invariably  prove  so 
powerless  an  instrument,  so  futile  a  method." 

If  this  direct  method  were  really  effective,  we 
might  as  well  put  the  little  drama  aside,  and  say 
plainly :  "It  is  foolish  to  be  nervous ;  it  is  danger- 
ous to  make  loose  statements.  Large-minded  people 
understand  things  better  than  those  who  are  narrow- 
minded." 

All  these  abstract  statements  would  be  as  true  and 
as  tiresome  as  the  multiplication  table.  The  child 
might  or  might  not  fix  them  in  his  mind,  but  he 
would  not  act  upon  them. 

But,  put  all  the  artistic  warmth  of  which  you  are 
capable  into  the  presentation  of  the  story,  and,  with- 
out one  word  of  comment  from  you,  the  children 
will  feel  the  dramatic  intensity  of  that  vast  con- 
course of  animals  brought  together  by  the  feeble  ut- 
terance of  one  irresponsible  little  hare.  Let  them 
feel  the  dignity  and  calm  of  the  Lion,  which  ac- 
counts for  his  authority;  his  tender  but  firm  treat- 
ment of  the  foolish  little  Hare;  and  listen  to  the 
glorious  finale  when  all  the  animals  retire  convinced 
of  their  folly;  and  you  will  find  that  you  have 
adopted  the  same  method  as  the  Lion  (who  must 
have  been  an  unconscious  follower  of  Froebel),  and 
that  there  is  nothing  to  add  to  the  picture. 

147 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Question  VI:  Is  it  wise  to  talk  over  a  story 
with  children  and  to  encourage  them  in  the  habit  of 
asking  questions  about  it? 

At  the  time,  no !  The  effect  produced  is  to  be  by 
dramatic  means,  and  this  would  be  destroyed  by  any 
attempt  at  analysis  by  means  of  questions. 

The  medium  that  has  been  used  in  the  telling  of 
the  story  is  (or  ought  to  be)  a  purely  artistic  one 
which  Avill  reach  the  child  through  the  medium  of 
the  emotions :  the  appeal  to  the  intellect  or  the  reason 
is  a  different  method,  which  must  be  used  at  a  dif- 
ferent time.  When  you  are  enjoying  the  fragrance 
of  a  flower  or  the  beauty  of  its  color,  it  is  not  the 
moment  to  be  reminded  of  its  botanical  classification, 
just  as  in  the  botany  lesson  it  would  be  somewhat 
irrelevant  to  talk  of  the  part  that  flowers  play  in  the 
happiness  of  life. 

From  a  practical  point  of  view,  it  is  not  wise  to 
encourage  questions  on  the  part  of  the  children,  be- 
cause they  are  apt  to  disturb  the  atmosphere  by 
bringing  in  entirely  irrelevant  matter,  so  that  in 
looking  back  on  the  telling  of  the  story,  the  child 
often  remembers  the  irrelevant  conversation  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  dramatic  interest  of  the  story  it- 
self.i 

I  remember  once  making  what  I  considered  at  the 
time  a  most  effective  appeal  to  some  children  who 

*See  Chapter  I. 

148 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

had  been  listening  to  the  Story  of  the  Little  Tin 
Soldier,  and,  unable  to  refrain  from  the  cheap 
method  of  questioning,  of  which  I  have  now  recog- 
nized the  futility,  I  asked :  **Don't  you  think  it  was 
nice  of  the  little  dancer  to  rush  down  into  the  fire 
to  join  the  brave  little  soldier?"  "Well,"  said  a 
prosaic  little  lad  of  six:  '7  thought  the  draught 
carried  her  down." 

Question  VII :  Is  it  wise  to  call  upon  children 
to  repeat  the  story  as  soon  as  it  has  been  told? 

My  answer  here  is  decidedly  in  the  negative. 

While  fully  appreciating  the  modern  idea  of  chil- 
dren expressing  themselves,  I  very  much  deprecate 
this  so-called  self-expression  taking  the  form  of 
mere  reproduction.  I  have  dealt  with  this  matter  in 
detail  in  another  portion  of  my  book.  This  is  one 
of  the  occasions  when  children  should  be  taking  in, 
not  giving  out  (even  the  most  fanatic  of  moderns 
must  agree  that  there  are  such  moments). 

When,  after  much  careful  preparation,  an  expert 
has  told  a  story  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  to  encour- 
age the  children  to  reproduce  this  story  with  their 
imperfect  vocabulary  and  with  no  special  gift  of 
speech  (I  am  always  alluding  to  the  normal  group 
of  children)  is  as  futile  as  if,  after  the  performance 
of  a  musical  piece  by  a  great  artist,  some  individual 
member  of  the  audience  were  to  be  called  upon  to 
give  his  rendering  of  the  original  rendering.    The 

149 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

result  would  be  that  the  musical  joy  of  the  audience 
would  be  completely  destroyed  and  the  performer 
himself  would  share  in  the  loss.^ 

I  have  always  maintained  that  five  minutes  of 
complete  silence  after  the  story  would  do  more  to 
fix  the  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  child  than  any 
amount  of  attempt  at  reproducing  it.  The  general 
statement  made  in  Dr.  Montessori's  wonderful 
chapter  on  "Silence"  would  seem  to  me  of  special 
application  to  the  moments  following  on  the  telling 
of  a  story. 

Question  VHI  :  Should  children  be  encouraged 
to  illustrate  the  stories  which  they  have  heard  f 

As  a  dramatic  interest  to  the  teachers  and  the 
children,  I  think  it  is  a  very  praiseworthy  experi- 
ment, if  used  somewhat  sparingly.  But  I  seriously 
doubt  whether  these  illustrations  in  any  way  indi- 
cate the  impression  made  on  the  mind  of  the  child. 
It  is  the  same  question  that  arises  when  that  child 
is  called  upon,  or  expresses  a  wish,  to  reproduce  the 
story  in  his  own  words :  the  unfamiliar  medium  in 
both  instances  makes  it  almost  impossible  for  the 
child  to  convey  his  meaning,  unless  he  is  an  artist  in 
the  one  case  or  he  has  real  literary  power  of  ex- 
pression in  the  other. 

*  In  this  matter  I  have,  in  England,  the  support  of  Dr.  Kim- 
mins,  Chief  Inspector  of  Education  in  the  London  County 
Council,  who  is  strongly  opposed  to  the  immediate  reproduc- 
tion of  stories. 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

My  own  impression,  confirmed  by  many  teachers 
who  have  made  the  experiment,  is  that  a  certain 
amount  of  disappointment  is  mixed  up  with  the  dar- 
ing joy  in  the  attempt,  simply  because  the  children 
can  get  nowhere  near  the  ideal  which  has  presented 
itself  to  the  "inner  eye." 

I  remember  a  kindergarten  teacher  saying  that 
on  one  occasion,  when  she  had  told  to  the  class  a 
thrilling  story  of  a  knight,  one  of  the  children  im- 
mediately asked  for  permission  to  draw  a  picture  of 
him  on  the  blackboard.  So  spontaneous  a  request 
could  not,  of  course,  be  refused,  and,  full  of  assur- 
ance, the  would-be  artist  began  to  give  his  impres- 
sion of  the  knight's  appearance.  When  the  picture 
was  finished,  the  child  stood  back  for  a  moment  to 
judge  for  himself  of  the  result.  He  put  down  the 
chalk  and  said  sadly:  "And  I  thought  he  was  so 
handsome." 

Nevertheless,  except  for  the  drawback  of  the 
other  children  seeing  a  picture  which  might  be  in- 
ferior to  their  own  mental  vision,  I  should  quite  ap- 
prove of  such  experiments,  as  long  as  they  are  not 
taken  as  literal  data  of  what  the  children  have  really 
received.  It  would,  however,  be  better  not  to  have 
the  picture  drawn  on  a  blackboard  but  at  the  child's 
private  desk,  to  be  seen  by  the  teacher  and  not,  un- 
less the  picture  were  exceptionally  good,  to  be  shown 
to  the  other  children. 

One  of  the  best  effects  of  such  an  experiment 

151 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

would  be  to  show  a  child  how  difficult  it  is  to  give 
the  impression  one  wishes  to  record,  and  which 
would  enable  him  later  on  to  appreciate  the  beauty 
of  such  work  in  the  hands  of  a  finished  artist. 

I  can  anticipate  the  jeers  with  which  such  remarks 
would  be  received  by  the  Futurist  School,  but,  ac- 
cording to  their  own  theory,  I  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  express  the  matter  as  I  see  it,  however  faulty  the 
vision  may  appear  to  them.^ 

Question  IX:  In  what  way  can  the  dramatic 
method  of  story-telling  be  used  in  ordinary  class 
teaching  f 

This  is  too  large  a  question  to  answer  fully  in  so 
general  a  survey  as  this  work,  but  I  should  like  to 
give  one  or  two  examples  as  to  how  the  element  of 
story-telling  could  be  introduced. 

I  have  always  thought  that  the  only  way  in  which 
we  could  make  either  a  history  or  literature  lesson 
live,  so  as  to  take  a  real  hold  on  the  mind  of  the 
pupil  at  any  age,  would  be  that,  instead  of  offering 
lists  of  events,  crowded  into  the  fictitious  area  of 
one  reign,  one  should  take  a  single  event,  say  in  one 
lesson  out  of  five,  and  give  it  in  the  most  splendid 
language  and  in  the  most  dramatic  manner. 

^  These  remarks  refer  only  to  the  illustrations  of  stories 
told.  Whether  children  should  be  encouraged  to  self-expres- 
sion in  drawing  (quite  apart  from  reproducing  in  one  medium 
what  has  been  conveyed  to  them  in  another),  is  too  large  a 
question  to  deal  with  in  this  special  work  on  story-telling. 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

To  come  to  a  concrete  example :  Supposing  that 
one  is  talking  to  the  class  of  Greece,  either  in  con- 
nection with  its  history,  its  geography  or  its  litera- 
ture, could  any  mere  accumulation  of  facts  give  a 
clearer  idea  of  the  life  of  the  people  than  a  dramati- 
cally told  story  from  Homer,  ^schylus,  Sophocles 
or  Euripides  ? 

What  in  the  history  of  Iceland  could  give  any 
more  graphic  idea  of  the  whole  character  of  the  life 
and  customs  of  the  inhabitants  than  one  of  the 
famous  sagas,  such  as  'The  Burning  of  Njal"  or 
"The  Death  of  Gunnar"? 

In  teaching  the  history  of  Spain,  what  could  make 
the  pupils  understand  better  the  spirit  of  knight-er- 
rantry, its  faults  and  its  qualities,  than  a  recital 
from  *'Don  Quixote"  or  from  the  tale  of  "The 
Cid"? 

In  a  word,  the  stories  must  appeal  so  vividly  to 
the  imagination  that  they  will  light  up  the  whole 
period  of  history  which  we  wish  them  to  illustrate 
and  keep  it  alive  in  the  memory  for  all  time. 

But  quite  apart  from  the  dramatic  presentation  of 
history,  there  are  very  great  possibilities  for  the 
short  story  introduced  into  the  portrait  of  some 
great  personage,  insignificant  in  itself,  but  which 
throws  a  sudden  sidelight  on  his  character,  show- 
ing the  mind  behind  the  actual  deeds;  this  is  what 
I  mean  by  using  the  dramatic  method. 

To  take  a  concrete  example :  Suppose,  in  giving 
153 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

an  account  of  the  life  of  Napoleon,  after  enlarging 
upon  his  campaigns,  his  European  policy,  his  in- 
domitable will,  one  were  suddenly  to  give  an  idea  of 
his  many-sidedness  by  relating  how  he  actually 
found  time  to  compile  a  catechism  which  was  used 
for  some  years  in  the  elementary  schools  of  France. 
What  sidelights  might  be  thrown  in  this  way  on 
such  characters  as  Nero,  Caesar,  Henry  VHI,  Lu- 
ther, Goethe! 

To  take  one  example  from  these:  Instead  of 
making  the  whole  career  of  Henry  VHI  center 
round  the  fact  that  he  was  a  much-married  man, 
could  we  not  present  his  artistic  side  and  speak  of 
his  charming  contributions  to  music? 

So  much  for  the  history  lessons.  But  could  not 
the  dramatic  form  and  interest  be  introduced  into 
our  geography  lessons?  Think  of  the  romance  of 
the  Panama  Canal,  the  position  of  Constantinople, 
as  affecting  the  history  of  Europe,  the  shape  of 
Greece,  England  as  an  island,  the  position  of  Thibet, 
the  interior  of  Africa — to  what  wonderful  story- 
telling would  these  themes  lend  themselves ! 

Question  X :  Which  should  predominate  in  the 
story — the  dramatic  or  the  poetic  element? 

This  is  a  much  debated  point.  From  experience 
I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  though  both 
should  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  stories,  the 
dramatic  element  should  prevail  from  the  very  na- 

154 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

ture  of  the  presentation,  and  also  because  it  reaches 
the  larger  number  of  children,  at  least  of  normal 
children.  Almost  every  child  is  dramatic,  in  the 
sense  that  it  loves  action  (not  necessarily  an  action 
in  which  it  has  to  bear  a  part).  It  is  the  exceptional 
child  who  is  reached  by  the  poetic  side,  and  just  as 
on  the  stage  the  action  must  be  quicker  and  more 
concentrated  than  in  a  poem — than  even  a  dramatic 
poem — so  it  must  be  with  the  story.  Children  act 
out  in  their  imagination  the  dramatic  or  actable  part 
of  the  story — the  poetical  side,  which  must  be 
painted  in  more  delicate  colors  or  presented  in  less 
obvious  form,  often  escapes  them.  Of  course,  the 
very  reason  why  we  must  include  the  poetical  ele- 
ment is  that  it  is  an  unexpressed  need  of  most  chil- 
dren. Their  need  of  the  dramatic  is  more  loudly 
proclaimed  and  more  easily  satisfied. 

Question  XI:  What  is  the  educational  value 
of  humor  in  the  stories  told  to  our  children  f 

My  answer  to  this  is  that  humor  means  so  much 
more  than  is  usually  understood  by  this  term.  So 
many  people  seem  to  think  that  to  have  a  sense  of 
humor  is  merely  to  be  tickled  by  a  funny  element  in 
a  story.  It  surely  means  something  much  more 
subtle  than  this.  It  is  Thackeray  who  says:  "If 
humor  only  meant  laughter,  but  the  humorist  pro- 
fesses to  awaken  and  direct  your  love,  your  pity, 
your  kindness,  your  scorn  for  untruth  and  preten- 

155 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

sion,  your  tenderness  for  the  weak,  the  poor,  the 
oppressed,  the  unhappy."  So  that,  in  our  stories, 
the  introduction  of  humor  should  not  merely  de- 
pend on  the  doubtful  amusement  that  follows  on  a 
sense  of  incongruity.  It  should  inculcate  a  sense 
of  proportion  brought  about  by  an  effort  of  imagina- 
tion; it  shows  a  child  its  real  position  in  the  uni- 
verse and  prevents  an  exaggerated  idea  of  his  own 
importance.  It  develops  the  logical  faculty,  and 
prevents  hasty  conclusions.  It  shortens  the  period 
of  joy  in  horse-play  and  practical  jokes.  It  brings 
about  a  clearer  perception  of  all  situations,  enabling 
the  child  to  get  the  point  of  view  of  another  person. 
It  is  the  first  instilling  of  philosophy  into  the  mind 
of  a  child  and  prevents  much  suffering  later  on  when 
the  blows  of  life  fall  upon  him;  for  a  sense  of  hu- 
mor teaches  us  at  an  early  age  not  to  expect  too 
much:  and  this  philosophy  can  be  developed  with- 
out cynicism  or  pessimism,  without  even  destroying 
the  joie  de  vivre. 

One  cannot,  however,  sufficiently  emphasize  the 
fact  that  these  far-reaching  results  can  be  brought 
about  only  by  humor  quite  distinct  from  the  broader 
fun  and  hilarity  which  have  also  their  use  in  an 
educational  scheme. 

From  my  own  experience,  I  have  learned  that 
development  of  humor  is  with  most  children  ex- 
tremely slow.  It  is  quite  natural  and  quite  right 
that  at  first  pure  fun,  obvious  situations  and  elemen- 

IS6 


QUESTIONS  ASKED  BY  TEACHERS 

tary  jokes  should  please  them,  but  we  can  very  grad- 
ually appeal  to  something  more  subtle,  and  if  I 
were  asked  what  story  would  educate  our  children 
most  thoroughly  in  appreciation  of  humor,  I  should 
say  that  "Alice  in  Wonderland"  was  the  most  ef- 
„  f  ective. 

What  better  object  lesson  could  be  given  in  hu- 
morous form  of  taking  somebody  else's  point  of 
view  than  that  given  to  Alice  by  the  Mock  Turtle  in 
speaking  of  the  Whiting f — 

"You  know  what  they're  like  ?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  AHce.  "They  have  their  tails  in 
their  mouths — and  they're  all  over  crumbs." 

"You're  wrong  about  the  crumbs,"  said  the  Mock  Turtle. 
"Crumbs  would  all  wash  off  in  the  sea." 

Or  when  Alice  is  speaking  to  the  Mouse  of  her 
cat,  and  says : 

"She  is  such  a  dear  quiet  thing — and  a  capital  one  for 

catching  mice "  and  then  suddenly  realizes  the  point 

of  view  of  the  Mouse,  who  was  "trembling  down  to  the 
end  of  its  tail." 

Then,  as  an  instance  "of  how  a  lack  of  humor  leads 
to  illogical  conclusons  (a  condition  common  to  most 
children),  we  have  the  conversation  between  Alice 
and  the  Pigeon: 

Alice  :  "But  little  girls  eat  quite  as  much  as  serpents 
do,  you  know." 

Pigeon  :  "I  don't  believe  it.  But  if  they  do,  why  then 
they're  a  kind  of  serpent,  that's  all  I  can  say." 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Then,  as  an  instance  of  how  a  sense  of  humor 
would  prevent  too  much  self-importance : 

"I  have  a  right  to  think,"  said  Alice  sharply. 
"Just  about  as  much  right,"  said  the  Duchess,  "as  pigs 
have  to  fly." 


PART   II 
THE   STORIES 


159 


The  following  stories  do  not  form  a  comprehen- 
sive selection ;  this  I  have  endeavored  to  give  in  the 
List  of  Stories.  The  stories  given  are  chiefly 
taken  from  my  own  repertoire,  and  have  been  so 
constantly  asked  for  by  teachers  that  I  am  glad  of 
an  opportunity  of  presenting  them  in  full. 

I  regret  that  I  have  been  unable  to  furnish  many 
of  the  stories  I  consider  good  for  narration,  but  the 
difficulty  of  obtaining  permission  has  deterred  me 
from  further  efforts  in  this  direction. 


STURLA,   THE   HISTORIAN* 

Then  Sturla  got  ready  to  sail  away  with  the  king, 
and  his  name  was  put  on  the  list.  He  went  on  board 
before  many  men  had  come ;  he  had  a  sleeping  bag 
and  a  travelling  chest,  and  took  his  place  on  the 
foredeck.  A  little  later  the  king  came  on  to  the 
quay,  and  a  company  of  men  with  him.  Sturla 
rose  and  bowed,  and  bade  the  king  "hail,"  but  the 
king  answered  nothing,  and  went  aft  along  the  ship 
to  the  quarter-deck.  They  sailed  that  day  to  go 
south  along  the  coast.  But  in  the  evening  when  men 
unpacked  their  provisions  Sturla  sat  still,  and  no  one 
invited  him  to  mess.  Then  a  servant  of  the  king's 
came  and  asked  Sturla  if  he  had  any  meat  and  drink. 
Sturla  said  '*No."  Then  the  king's  servant  went  to 
the  king  and  spoke  with  him,  out  of  hearing,  and 
then  went  forward  to  Sturla  and  said :  "You  shall 
go  to  mess  with  Thorir  Mouth  and  Erlend  Maw." 
They  took  him  into  their  mess,  but  rather  stiffly. 
When  men  were  turning  in  to  sleep,  a  sailor  of  the 
king's  asked  who  should  tell  them  stories.     There 

*I  give  the  following  story,  quoted  by  Professor  Ker  in 
his  Romanes  lecture,  1906,  as  an  encouragement  to  those 
who  develop  the  art  of  story-telling. 

161 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

was  little  answer.  Then  said  he :  "Sturla  the  Ice- 
lander, will  you  tell  stories?"  "As  you  will,"  said 
Sturla.  So  he  told  them  the  story  of  Huld,  better 
and  fuller  than  any  one  there  had  ever  heard  it  told 
before.  Then  many  men  pushed  forward  to  the 
fore-deck,  wanting  to  hear  as  clearly  as  might  be, 
and  there  was  a  great  crowd.  The  queen  asked: 
"What  is  that  crowd  on  deck  there?"  A  man  an- 
swered :  "The  men  are  listening  to  the  story  that 
the  Icelander  tells."  "What  story  is  that?"  said  she. 
He  answers :  "It  is  about  a  great  troll-wife,  and  it 
is  a  good  story  and  well  told."  The  king  bade  her 
pay  no  heed  to  that,  and  go  to  sleep.  She  says :  "I 
think  this  Icelander  must  be  a  good  fellow,  and  less 
to  blame  than  he  is  reported."  The  king  was  silent. 
So  the  night  passed,  and  the  next  morning  there 
was  no  wind  for  them,  and  the  king's  ship  lay  in  the 
same  place.  Later  in  the  day,  when  men  sat  at  their 
drink,  the  king  sent  dishes  from  his  table  to  Sturla. 
Sturla's  messmates  were  pleased  with  this:  "You 
bring  better  luck  than  we  thought,  if  this  sort  of 
thing  goes  on."  After  dinner  the  queen  sent  for 
Sturla  and  asked  him  to  come  to  her  and  bring  the 
troll-wife  story  along  with  him.  So  Sturla  went 
aft  to  the  quarter-deck,  and  greeted  the  king  and 
queen.  The  king  answered  little,  the  queen  well  and 
cheerfully.  She  asked  him  to  tell  the  same  story  he 
had  told  overnight.  He  did  so,  for  a  great  part  of 
the  day.    When  he  had  finished,  the  queen  thanked 

162 


STURLA,  THE  HISTORIAN 

him,  and  many  others  besides,  and  made  him  out  in 
their  minds  to  be  a  learned  man  and  sensible.  But 
the  king  said  nothing ;  only  he  smiled  a  little.  Sturla 
thought  he  saw  that  the  king's  whole  frame  of  mind 
was  brighter  than  the  day  before.  So  he  said  to  the 
king  that  he  had  made  a  poem  about  him,  and  an- 
other about  his  father :  *T  would  gladly  get  a  hear- 
ing for  them."  The  queen  said :  "Let  him  recite  his 
poem;  I  am  told  that  he  is  the  best  of  poets,  and  his 
poem  will  be  excellent."  The  king  bade  him  say  on, 
if  he  would,  and  repeat  the  poem  he  professed  to 
have  made  about  him.  Sturla  chanted  it  to  the  end. 
The  queen  said :  **To  my  mind  that  is  a  good  poem." 
The  king  said  to  her:  *'Can  you  follow  the  poem 
clearly?"  "I  would  be  fain  to  have  you  think  so, 
Sir,"  said  the  queen.  The  king  said:  *T  have 
learned  that  Sturla  is  good  at  verses."  Sturla  took 
his  leave  of  the  king  and  queen  and  went  to  his 
place.  There  was  no  sailing  for  the  king  all  that 
day.  In  the  evening  before  he  went  to  bed  he  sent 
for  Sturla.  And  when  he  came  he  greeted  the  king 
and  said:  "What  will  you  have  me  to  do,  Sir?" 
The  king  called  for  a  silver  goblet  full  of  wine,  and 
drank  some  and  gave  it  to  Sturla  and  said:  "A 
health  to  a  friend  in  wine!"  (Vin  skal  til  vinar 
drekka).  Sturla  said:  "God  be  praised,  for  it!" 
"Even  so,"  says  the  king,  "and  now  I  wish  you  to 
say  the  poem  you  have  made  about  my  father." 
Sturla  repeated  it:  and  when  it  was  finished  men 

163 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

praised  it  much,  and  most  of  all  the  queen.  The 
king  said :  "To  my  thinking,  you  are  a  better  reciter 
than  the  Pope." 

Sturlunga  Saga,  vol.  ii,  p.  269. 


A   SAGA 

In  the  grey  beginnings  of  the  world,  or  ever  the 
flower  of  justice  had  rooted  in  the  heart,  there  Hved 
among  the  daughters  of  men  two  children,  sisters, 
of  one  house. 

In  childhood  did  they  leap  and  climb  and  swim 
with  the  men  children  of  their  race,  and  were  nur- 
tured on  the  same  stories  of  gods  and  heroes. 

In  maidenhood  they  could  do  all  that  a  maiden 
might  and  more — delve  could  they  no  less  than  spin, 
hunt  no  less  than  weave,  brew  pottage  and  helm 
ships,  wake  the  harp  and  tell  the  stars,  face  all  dan- 
ger and  laugh  at  all  pain. 

Joyous  in  toil-time  and  rest-time  were  they  as  the 
days  and  years  of  their  youth  came  and  went. 
Death  had  spared  their  house,  and  unhappiness 
knew  they  none.  Yet  often  as  at  falling  day  they 
sat  before  sleep  round  the  hearth  of  red  fire,  listen- 
ing with  the  household  to  the  brave  songs  of  gods 
and  heroes,  there  would  surely  creep  into  their  hearts 
a  shadow — the  thought  that  whatever  the  years  of 
their  lives,  and  whatever  the  generous  deeds,  there 
would  for  them,  as  women,  be  no  escape  at  the  last 
from  the  dire  mists  of  Hela,  the  fogland  beyond  the 

i6s 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

grave  for  all  such  as  die  not  in  battle ;  no  escape  for 
them  from  Hela,  and  no  place  for  ever  for  them  or 
for  their  kind  among  the  glory-crowned,  sword- 
shriven  heroes  of  echoing  Valhalla. 

That  shadow  had  first  fallen  in  their  lusty  child- 
hood, had  slowly  gathered  darkness  through  the 
overflowing  days  of  maidenhood,  and  now,  in  the 
strong  tide  of  full  womanhood,  often  lay  upon  their 
future  as  the  moon  in  Odin's  wrath  lies  upon  the 
sun. 

But  stout  were  they  to  face  danger  and  laugh  at 
pain,  and  for  all  the  shadow  upon  their  hope  they 
lived  brave  and  songful  days — ^the  one  a  homekeeper 
and  in  her  turn  a  mother  of  men;  the  other  unhus- 
banded,  but  gentle  to  ignorance  and  sickness  and 
sorrow  through  the  width  and  length  of  the  land. 

And  thus,  facing  life  fearlessly  and  ever  with  a 
smile,  those  two  women  lived  even  unto  extreme  old 
age,  unto  the  one's  children's  children's  children, 
labouring  truly  unto  the  end  and  keeping  strong 
hearts  against  the  dread  day  of  Hela,  and  the  fate- 
locked  gates  of  Valhalla. 

But  at  the  end  a  wonder. 

As  these  sisters  looked  their  last  upon  the  sun,  the 
one  in  the  ancestral  homestead  under  the  eyes  of 
love,  the  other  in  a  distant  land  among  strange  faces, 
behold  the  wind  of  Thor,  and  out  of  the  deep  of 
heaven  the  white  horses  of  Odin,  All-Father,  bear- 
ing Valkyrie,  shining  messengers  of  Valhalla.    And 

i66 


A  SAGA 

those  two  world- worn  women,  faithful  in  all  their 
lives,  were  caught  up  in  death  in  divine  arms  and 
borne  far  from  the  fogs  of  Hela  to  golden  thrones 
among  the  battle  heroes,  upon  which  the  Nornir, 
sitting  at  the  loom  of  life,  had  from  all  eternity 
graven  their  names. 

And  from  that  hour  have  the  gates  of  Valhalla 
been  thrown  wide  to  all  faithful  endeavour  whether 
of  man  or  of  woman. 

John  Russell, 
Headmaster  of  the  King  Alfred  School. 


THE  LEGEND   OF   ST.   CHRISTOPHER 

Christopher  was  of  the  lineage  of  the  Canaaneans 
and  he  was  of  a  right  great  stature,  and  had  a  ter- 
rible and  fearful  cheer  and  countenance.  And  he 
was  twelve  cubits  of  length.  And,  as  it  is  read  in 
some  histories,  when  he  served  and  dwelled  with  the 
king  of  Canaaneans,  it  came  in  his  mind  that  he 
would  seek  the  greatest  prince  that  was  in  the  world 
and  him  he  would  serve  and  obey. 

And  so  far  he  went  that  he  came  to  a  right  great 
king,  of  whom  the  renown  generally  was  that  he  was 
the  greatest  of  the  world.  And  when  the  king  saw 
him  he  received  him  into  his  service  and  made  him 
to  dwell  in  his  court. 

Upon  a  time  a  minstrel  sung  tof ore  him  a  song  in 
which  he  named  oft  the  devil.  And  the  king  which 
was  a  Christian  man,  when  he  heard  him  name  the 
devil,  made  anon  the  sign  of  the  cross  in  his  visage. 
And  when  Christopher  saw  that,  he  had  great  mar- 
vel what  sign  it  was  and  wherefore  the  king  made 
it.  And  he  demanded  it  of  him.  And  because  the 
king  would  not  say,  he  said,  "If  thou  tell  me  not,  I 
shall  no  longer  dwell  with  thee."  And  then  the  king 
told  to  him  saying,  "Alway  when  I  hear  the  devil 

1 68 


I 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER 

named,  I  fear  that  he  should  have  power  over  me, 
and  I  garnish  me  with  this  sign  that  he  grieve  not 
nor  annoy  me."  Then  Christopher  said  to  him, 
*Thou  doubtest  the  devil  that  he  hurt  thee  not? 
Then  is  the  devil  more  mighty  and  greater  than 
thou  art.  I  am  then  deceived  of  my  hope  and  pur- 
pose; for  I  supposed  that  I  had  found  the  most 
mighty  and  the  most  greatest  lord  of  the  world. 
But  I  commend  thee  to  God,  for  I  will  go  seek  him 
to  be  my  lord  and  I  his  servant." 

And  then  he  departed  from  this  king  and  hasted 
him  to  seek  the  devil.  And  as  he  went  by  a  great 
desert  he  saw  a  great  company  of  knights.  Of  which 
a  knight  cruel  and  horrible-  came  to  him  and  de- 
manded whither  he  went.  And  Christopher  an- 
swered to  him  and  said,  *T  go  to  seek  the  devil 
for  to  be  my  master.'*  And  he  said,  "I  am  he  that 
thou  seekest."  And  then  Christopher  was  glad  and 
bound  himself  to  be  his  servant  perpetual,  and  took 
him  for  his  master  and  lord. 

And  as  they  went  together  by  a  common  way,  they 
found  there  a  cross  erect  and  standing.  And  anon 
as  the  devil  saw  the  cross,  he  was  afeard  and  fled, 
and  left  the  right  way  and  brought  Christopher 
about  by  a  sharp  desert,  and  after,  when  they  were 
past  the  cross,  he  brought  him  to  the  highway  that 
they  had  left.  And  when  Christopher  saw  that,  he 
marvelled  and  demanded  whereof  he  doubted  that 
he  had  left  high  and  fair  way  and  had  gone  so  far 

169 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

about  by  so  hard  desert.  And  the  devil  would  not 
tell  to  him  in  no  wise.  Then  Christopher  said  to 
him,  "If  thou  wilt  not  tell  me  I  shall  anon  deparf 
from  thee  and  shall  serve  thee  no  more."  There- 
fore the  devil  was  constrained  to  tell  him,  and  said, 
"There  was  a  man  called  Christ  which  was  hanged 
on  the  cross,  and  when  I  see  his  sign,  I  am  sore 
afeard  and  flee  from  it  wheresomever  I  find  it." 
To  whom  Christopher  said,  "Then  he  is  greater 
and  more  mightier  than  thou,  when  thou  art  afraid 
of  his  sign.  And  I  see  well  that  I  have  laboured  in 
vain  since  I  have  not  founden  the  greatest  lord  of 
all  the  earth.  And  I  will  serve  thee  no  longer. 
Go  thy  way  then :  for  I  will  go  seek  Jesus  Christ." 
And  when  he  had  long  sought  and  demanded 
where  he  should  find  Christ,  at  the  last  he  came  into 
a  great  desert  to  an  hermit  that  dwelled  there.  And 
this  hermit  preached  to  him  of  Jesus  Christ  and  in- 
formed him  in  the  faith  diligently.  And  he  said  to 
him,  "This  king  whom  thou  desirest  to  serve,  requir- 
eth  this  service  that  thou  must  oft  fast."  And  Chris- 
topher said  to  him,  "Require  of  me  some  other  thing 
and  I  shall  do  it.  For  that  which  thou  requirest  I 
may  not  do."  And  the  hermit  said,  "Thou  must 
then  wake  and  make  many  prayers."  And  Chris- 
topher said  to  him,  "I  wot  not  what  it  is.  I  may  do 
no  such  thing."  And  then  the  hermit  said  unto  him, 
"Knowest  thou  such  a  river  in  which  many  be  per- 
ished and  lost?"     To  whom  Christopher  said,  "I 

170 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  CHRISTOPHER 

know  it  well.'*  Then  said  the  hermit,  "Because  thou 
art  noble  and  high  of  stature  and  strong  in  thy  mem- 
bers, thou  shalt  be  resident  by  that  river  and  shalt 
bear  over  all  them  that  shall  pass  there.  Which 
shall  be  a  thing  right  convenable  to  Our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  whom  thou  desirest  to  serve,  and  I  hope  He 
shall  shew  Himself  to  thee."  Then  said  Christo- 
pher, "Certes,  this  service  may  I  well  do,  and  I 
promise  to  Him  for  to  do  it." 

Then  went  Christopher  to  this  river,  and  made 
there  his  habitation  for  him.  And  he  bare  a  great 
pole  in  his  hand  instead  of  a  staff,  by  which  he  sus- 
tained him  in  the  water;  and  bare  over  all  manner 
of  people  without  ceasing.  And  there  he  abode, 
thus  doing,  many  days. 

And  on  a  time,  as  he  slept  in  his  lodge,  he  heard 
the  voice  of  a  child  which  called  him  and  said, 
^'Christopher,  come  out  and  bear  me  over."  Then 
he  awoke  and  went  out ;  but  he  found  no  man.  And 
when  he  was  again  in  his  house,  he  heard  the  same 
voice,  and  he  ran  out  and  found  no  body.  The  third 
time  he  was  called,  and  came  thither,  and  found  a 
child  beside  the  rivage  of  the  river:  which  prayed 
him  goodly  to  bear  him  over  the  water.  And  then 
Christopher  lift  up  the  child  on  his  shoulders  and 
took  his  staff  and  entered  in  to  the  river  for  to  pass. 
And  the  water  of  the  river  arose  and  swelled  more 
and  more.  And  the  child  was  heavy  as  lead.  And 
always  as  he  went  further  the  water  increased  and 

171 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

grew  more,  and  the  child  more  and  more  waxed 
heavy:  in  so  much  that  Christopher  had  great  an- 
guish and  feared  to  be  drowned.  And  when  he  was 
escaped  with  great  pain  and  passed  the  water,  and 
set  the  child  aground,  he  said  to  the  child,  *'Child, 
thou  hast  put  me  in  great  peril.  Thou  weighest  al- 
most as  I  had  had  all  the  world  upon  me.  I  might 
bear  no  greater  burden."  And  the  child  answered, 
"Christopher,  marvel  thou  no  thing.  For  thou  hast 
not  only  borne  all  the  world  upon  thee ;  but  thou  hast 
borne  Him  that  created  and  made  all  the  world  upon 
thy  shoulders.  I  am  Jesus  Christ,  the  king  to  whom 
thou  servest  in  this  work.  And  that  thou  mayest 
know  that  I  say  to  thee  truth,  set  thy  staff  in  the 
earth  by  the  house,  and  thou  shalt  see  to-morrow 
that  it  shall  bear  flowers  and  fruit."  And  anon  he 
vanished  from  his  eyes. 

And  then  Christopher  set  his  staff  in  the  earth  and 
when  he  arose  on  the  morrow,  he  found  his  staff  like 
a  palm-tree  bearing  flowers,  leaves  and  dates. 

From  The  Legenda  Aurea  Temple  Classics. 


ARTHUR  IN  THE   CAVE 

Once  upon  a  time  a  Welshman  was  walking  on 
London  Bridge,  staring  at  the  traffic  and  wondering* 
why  there  were  so  many  kites  hovering  about.  He 
had  come  to  London,  after  many  adventures  with 
thieves  and  highwaymen,  which  need  not  be  related 
here,  in  charge  of  a  herd  of  black  Welsh  cattle.  He 
had  sold  them  with  much  profit,  and  with  jingling 
gold  in  his  pocket  he  was  going  about  to  see  the 
sights  of  the  city. 

He  was  carrying  a  hazel  staff  in  his  hand,  for  you 
must  know  that  a  good  staff  is  as  necessary  to  a 
drover  as  teeth  are  to  his  dogs.  He  stood  still  to 
gaze  at  some  wares  in  a  shop  ( for  at  that  time  Lon- 
don Bridge  was  shops  from  beginning  to  end), 
when  he  noticed  that  a  man  was  looking  at  his  stick 
with  a  long  fixed  look.  The  man  after  a  while  came 
to  him  and  asked  him  where  he  came  from. 

"I  come  from  my  own  country,"  said  the  Welsh- 
man, rather  surlily,  for  he  could  not  see  what  busi- 
ness the  man  had  to  ask  such  a  question. 

"Do  not  take  it  amiss,"  said  the  stranger :  "if  you 
will  only  answer  my  questions,  and  take  my  advice, 
it  will  be  of  greater  benefit  to  you  than  you  imagine. 
Do  you  remember  where  you  cut  that  stick?" 

173 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  Welshman  was  still  suspicious,  and  said: 
"What  does  it  matter  where  I  cut  it?" 

"It  matters,"  said  the  questioner,  "because  there 
is  a  treasure  hidden  near  the  spot  where  you  cut  that 
stick.  If  you  can  remember  the  place  and  conduct 
me  to  it,  I  will  put  you  in  possession  of  great 
riches." 

The  Welshman  now  understood  he  had  to  deal 
with  a  sorcerer,  and  he  was  greatly  perplexed  as  to 
what  to  do.  On  the  one  hand,  he  was  tempted  by 
the  prospect  of  wealth ;  on  the  other  hand,  he  knew 
that  the  sorcerer  must  have  derived  his  knowledge 
from  devils,  and  he  feared  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  powers  of  .darkness.  The  cunning  man 
strove  hard  to  persuade  him,  and  at  length  made  him 
promise  to  shew  the  place  where  he  cut  his  hazel 
staff. 

The  Welshman  and  the  magician  journeyed  to- 
gether to  Wales.  They  went  to  Craig  y  Dinas,  the 
Rock  of  the  Fortress,  at  the  head  of  the  Neath  val- 
ley, near  Pont  Nedd  Fechan,  and  the  Welshman, 
pointing  to  the  stock  or  root  of  an  old  hazel,  said : 
"This  is  where  I  cut  my  stick." 

"Let  us  dig,"  said  the  sorcerer.  They  digged  until 
they  came  to  a  broad,  flat  stone.  Prying  this  up, 
they  found  some  steps  leading  downwards.  They 
went  down  the  steps  and  along  a  narrow  passage 
until  they  came  to  a  door.  "Are  you  brave?"  asked 
the  sorcerer ;  "will  you  come  in  with  me  ?" 

174 


ARTHUR  IN  THE  CAVE 

'*I  will/'  said  the  Welshman,  his  curiosity  getting 
the  better  of  his  fear. 

They  opened  the  door,  and  a  great  cave  opened  out 
before  them.  There  was  a  faint  red  light  in  the 
cave,  and  they  could  see  everything.  The  first  thing 
they  came  to  was  a  bell. 

*'Do  not  touch  that  bell,"  said  the  sorcerer,  "or  it 
will  be  all  over  with  us  both." 

As  they  went  further  in,  the  Welshman  saw  that 
the  place  was  not  empty.  There  were  soldiers  lying 
down  asleep,  thousands  of  them,  as  far  as  ever  the 
eye  could  see.  Each  one  was  clad  in  bright  armour, 
the  steel  helmet  of  each  was  on  his  head,  the  shining 
shield  of  each  was  on  his  arm,  the  sword  of  each 
was  near  his  hand,  each  had  his  spear  stuck  in  the 
ground  near  him,  and  each  and  all  were  asleep. 

In  the  midst  of  the  cave  was  a  great  round  table  at 
which  sat  warriors  whose  noble  features  and  richly- 
dight  armour  proclaimed  that  they  were  not  as  the 
roll  of  common  men. 

Each  of  these,  too,  had  his  head  bent  down  in 
sleep.  On  a  golden  throne  on  the  further  side  of  the 
round  table  was  a  king  of  gigantic  stature  and  au- 
gust presence.  In  his  hand,  held  below  the  hilt,  was 
a  mighty  sword  with  scabbard  and  haft  of  gold 
studded  with  gleaming  gems;  on  his  head  was  a 
crown  set  with  precious  stones  which  flashed  and 
glinted  like  so  many  points  of  fire.  Sleep  had  set  its 
seal  on  his  eyelids  also. 

175 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

*'Are  they  asleep?"  asked  the  Welshman,  hardly 
believing  his  own  eyes.  "Yes,  each  and  all  of  them," 
answered  the  sorcerer.  **But,  if  you  touch  yonder 
bell,  they  will  all  awake." 

"How  long  have  they  been  asleep?" 

"For  over  a  thousand  years." 

"Who  are  they?" 

"Arthur's  warriors,  waiting  for  the  time  to  come 
when  they  shall  destroy  all  the  enemy  of  the  Cymry 
and  re-possess  the  strand  of  Britain,  establishing 
their  own  king  once  more  at  Caer  Lleon." 

"Who  are  these  sitting  at  the  round  table  ?" 

"These  are  Arthur's  knights — Owain,  the  son  of 
Urien ;  Cai,  the  son  of  Cynyr ;  Gnalchmai,  the  son  of 
Gwyar;  Peredir,  the  son  of  Efrawe;  Geraint,  the 
son  of  Erbin;  Trystan,  the  son  of  March;  Bedwyr, 
the  son  of  Bedrawd;  Ciernay,  the  son  of  Celyddon; 
Edeyrn,  the  son  of  Nudd;  Cymri,  the  son  of 
Clydno." 

"And  on  the  golden  throne  ?"  broke  in  the  Welsh- 
man. 

"Is  Arthur  himself,  with  his  sword  Excalibur  in 
his  hand,"  replied  the  sorcerer. 

Impatient  by  this  time  at  the  Welshman's  ques- 
tions, the  sorcerer  hastened  to  a  great  heap  of  yellow 
gold  on  the  floor  of  the  cave.  He  took  up  as  much 
as  he  could  carry,  and  bade  his  companion  do  the 
same.    "It  is  time  for  us  to  go,"  he  then  said,  and 

176 


ARTHUR  IN  THE  CAVE 

he  led  the  way  towards  the  door  by  which  they  had 
entered. 

But  the  Welshman  was  fascinated  by  the  sight  of 
the  countless  soldiers  in  their  glittering  arms — all 
asleep. 

*'How  I  should  like  to  see  them  all  awaking!"  he 
said  to  himself.  **I  will  touch  the  bell — I  ijiust  see 
them  all  arising  from  their  sleep." 

When  they  came  to  the  bell,  he  struck  it  until  it 
rang  through  the  whole  place.  As  soon  as  it  rang, 
lo!  the  thousands  of  warriors  leapt  to  their  feet  and 
the  ground  beneath  them  shook  with  the  sound  of 
the  steel  arms.  And  a  great  voice  carne  from  their 
midst :    "Who  rang  the  bell  ?    Has  the  day  come  ?" 

The  sorcerer  was  so  much  frightened  that  he 
shook  like  an  aspen  leaf.  He  shouted  in  answer: 
*'No,  the  day  has  not  come.    Sleep  on." 

The  mighty  host  was  all  in  motion,  and  the  Welsh- 
man's eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  looked  at  the  bright 
steel  arms  which  illumined  the  cave  as  with  the  light 
of  myriad  flames  of  fire. 

^'Arthur,"  said  the  voice  again,  *'awake;  the  bell 
has  rung,  the  day  is  breaking.  Awake,  Arthur  the 
Great." 

**No,"  shouted  the  sorcerer,  "it  is  still  night. 
Sleep  on,  Arthur  the  Great." 

A  sound  came  from  the  throne.  Arthur  was 
standing,  and  the  jewels  in  his  crown  shone  like 

177 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

bright  stars  above  the  countless  throng.  His  voice 
was  strong  and  sweet  like  the  sound  of  many  waters, 
and  he  said : 

**My  warriors,  the  day  has  not  come  when  the 
Black  Eagle  and  the  Golden  Eagle  shall  go  to  war. 
It  is  only  a  seeker  a*fter  gold  who  has  rung  the  bell. 
Sleep  on,  my  warriors;  the  morn  of  Wales  has  not 
yet  dawned." 

A  peaceful  sound  like  the  distant  sigh  of  the  sea 
came  over  the  cave,  and  in  a  trice  the  soldiers  were 
all  asleep  again.  The  sorcerer  hurried  the  Welsh- 
man out  of  the  cave,  moved  the  stone  back  to  its 
place  and  vanished. 

Many  a  time  did  the  Welshman  try  to  find  his  way 
into  the  cave  again,  but  though  he  dug  over  every 
inch  of  the  hill,  he  has  never  again  found  the  en- 
trance to  Arthur's  Cave. 

From  *The  Welsh  Fairy  Book,"  by  W.  Jen- 
KYN  Thomas.   Fisher  Unwin. 


HAFIZ,   THE   STONE-CUTTER 

There  was  once  a  stone-cutter  whose  name  was 
Hafiz,  and  all  day  long  he  chipped,  chipped,  chipped 
at  his  block.  And  often  he  grew  very  weary  of  his 
task  and  he  would  say  to  himself  impatiently,  *'Why 
should  I  go  on  chip-chip-chipping  at  my  block? 
Why  should  I  not  have  pleasure  and  amusement  as 
other  folk  have  ?" 

One  day,  when  the  sun  was  very  hot  and  when  he 
felt  specially  weary,  he  suddenly  heard  the  sound  of 
many  feet,  and,  looking  up  from  his  work,  he  saw 
a  great  procession  coming  his  way.  It  was  the  King, 
mounted  on  a  splendid  charger,  all  his  soldiers  to  the 
right,  in  their  shining  armour,  and  the  servants  to 
the  left,  dressed  in  gorgeous  clothing,  ready  to  do 
his  behests. 

And  Hafiz  said:  "How  splendid  to  be  a  King! 
If  only  I  could  be  a  King,  if  only  for  ten  minutes,  so 
that  I  might  know  what  it  feels  like!"  And  then, 
even  as  he  spoke,  he  seemed  to  be  dreaming,  and  in 
his  dream  he  sang  this  little  song : 

"Ah  me!    Ah  me! 
If  Hafiz  only  the  King  could  be !"  ^ 

^  The  melody  to  be  crooned  at  first  and  to  grow  louder  at 
each  incident 

179 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

And  then  a  voice  from  the  air  around  seemed  to 
answer  him  and  to  say : 

"Be  thou  the  King." 

And  Hafiz  became  the  King,  and  he  it  was  that 
sat  on  the  splendid  charger,  and  they  were  his  sol- 
diers to  the  right  and  his  servants  to  the  left.  And 
Hafiz  said  :  "I  am  King,  and  there  is  no  one  stronger 
in  the  whole  world  than  L" 

But  soon,  in  spite  of  the  golden  canopy  over  his 
head,  Hafiz  began  to  feel  the  terrible  heat  of  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  and  soon  he  noticed  that  the  sol- 
diers and  servants  were  weary,  that  his  horse 
drooped,  and  that  he,  Hafiz,  was  overcome,  and  he 
said  angrily :  **What !  Is  there  something  stronger 
in  the  world  than  a  King?"  And,  almost  without 
knowing  it,  he  again  sang  his  song — more  boldly 
than  the  first  time: 

"Ah  me  !    Ah  me ! 
If  Hafiz  only  the  Sun  could  be  I" 

And  the  Voice  answered: 

"Be  thou  the  Sun." 

And  Hafiz  became  the  Sun,  and  shone  down  upon 
the  Earth,  but,  because  he  did  not  know  how  to  shine 
very  wisely,  he  shone  very  fiercely,  so  that  the  crops 
dried  up,  and  folk  grew  sick  and  died.  And  then 
there  arose  from  the  East  a  little  cloud  which  slipped 

i8o 


HAFIZ,  THE  STONE-CUTTER 

between  Hafiz  and  the  Earth,  so  that  he  could  no 
longer  shine  down  upon  it,  and  he  said :  "Is  there 
something  stronger  in  the  world  than  the  Sun  ?'* 

"Ah  me !    Ah  me ! 
If  Hafiz  only  the  Cloud  could  be!" 

And  the  Voice  said : 

"Be  thou  the  Cloud." 

And  Hafiz  became  the  Cloud,  and  rained  down 
water  upon  the  Earth,  but,  because  he  did  not  know 
how  to  do  so  wisely,  there  fell  so  much  rain  that  all 
the  little  rivulets  became  great  rivers,  and  all  the 
great  rivers  overflowed  their  banks,  and  carried 
everything  before  them  in  swift  torrent — all  except 
one  great  rock  which  stood  unmoved.  And  Hafiz 
said:  *ls  there  something  stronger  than  the 
Cloud? 

"Ah  me !    Ah  me ! 
If  Hafiz  only  the  Rock  could  be !" 

And  the  Voice  said : 

"Be  thou  the  Rock." 

And  Hafiz  became  the  Rock,  and  the  Cloud  disap- 
peared and  the  waters  went  down. 

And  Hafiz  the  Rock  saw  coming  towards  him  a 
man — but  he  could  not  see  his  face.  As  the  man  ap- 
proached he  suddenly  raised  a  hammer  and  struck 

i8i 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Hafiz,  so  that  he  felt  it  through  all  his  stony  body. 
And  Hafiz  said:  **Is  there  something  stronger  in 
the  world  than  the  Rock  ? 

"Ah  me !    Ah  me ! 
If  Hafiz  only  that  Man  might  be!" 

And  the  Voice  said : 

"Be  thou— Thyself." 

And  Hafiz  seized  the  hammer  and  said : 

"The  Sun  was  stronger  than  the  King,  the  Cloud  was 
stronger  than  the  Sun,  the  Rock  was  stronger  than  the 
Cloud,  but  I,  Hafiz,  was  stronger  than  all." 

Adapted  and  arranged  by  the  Author, 


TO   YOUR   GOOD    HEALTH 
(From  the  Russian) 

Long  long  ago  there  lived  a  King  who  was  such  a 
mighty  monarch  that  whenever  he  sneezed  everyone 
in  the  whole  country  had  to  say,  "To  your  good 
health !"  Everyone  said  it  except  the  Shepherd  with 
the  bright  blue  eyes,  and  he  would  not  say  it. 

The  King  heard  of  this  and  was  very  angry,  and 
sent  for  the  Shepherd  to  appear  before  him. 

The  Shepherd  came  and  stood  before  the  throne, 
where  the  King  sat  looking  very  grand  and  power- 
ful. But  however  grand  or  powerful  he  might  be, 
the  Shepherd  did  not  feel  a  bit  afraid  of  him. 

"Say  at  once  To  my  good  health!'  cried  the 
King. 

"To  my  good  health,"  replied  the  Shepherd. 

"To  mine — to  mine,  you  rascal,  you  vagabond !" 
stormed  the  King. 

"To  mine,  to  mine.  Your  Majesty,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

"But  to  mine — to  my  own !"  roared  the  King,  and 
beat  on  his  breast  in  a  rage. 

"Well,  yes ;  to  mine,  of  course,  to  my  own,"  cried 
the  Shepherd,  and  gently  tapped  his  breast. 

183 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  King  was  beside  himself  with  fury  and  did 
not  know  what  to  do,  when  the  «Lord  Chamber- 
lain interfered : 

"Say  at  once — say  this  very  moment,  *To  your 
health.  Your  Majesty,'  for  if  you  don't  say  it  you 
will  lose  your  life,"  he  whispered. 

"No,  I  won't  say  it  till  I  get  the  Princess  for 
my  wife,"  was  the  Shepherd's  answer. 

Now  the  Princess  was  sitting  on  a  little  throne 
beside  the  King,  her  father,  and  she  looked  as  sweet 
and  lovely  as  a  little  golden  dove.  When  she  heard 
what  the  Shepherd  said,  she  could  not  help  laughing, 
for  there  is  no  denying  the  fact  that  this  young 
shepherd  with  the  blue  eyes  pleased  her  very  much ; 
indeed,  he  pleased  her  better  than  any  king's  son 
she  had  yet  seen. 

But  the  King  was  not  as  pleasant  as  his  daughter, 
and  he  gave  orders  to  throw  the  Shepherd  into  the 
white  bear's  pit. 

The  guards  led  him  away  and  thrust  him  into  the 
pit  with  the  white  bear,  who  had  had  nothing  to 
eat  for  two  days  and  was  very  hungry.  The  door 
of  the  pit  was  hardly  closed  when  the  bear  rushed 
at  the  Shepherd;  but  when  it  saw  his  eyes  it  was 
so  frightened  that  it^was  ready  to  eat  itself.  It 
shrank  away  into  a  corner  and  gazed  at  him  from 
there,  and  in  spite  of  being  so  famished,  did  not- 
dare  to  touch  him,  but  sucked  its  own  paws  from 
sheer  hunger.     The  Shepherd  felt  that  if  he  once 

184 


TO  YOUR  GOOD  HEALTH 

removed  his  eyes  off  the  beast  he  was  a  dead  man, 
and  in  order  to  keep  himself  awake  he  made  songs 
and  sang  them,  and  so  the  night  went  by. 

Next  morning  the  Lord  Chamberlain  came  to 
see  the  Shepherd's  bones,  and  was  amazed  to  find 
him  alive  and  well.  He  led  him  to  the  King,  who 
fell  into  a  furious  passion,  and  said : 

"Well,  you  have  learned  what  it  is  to  be  very  near 
death,  and  now  will  you  say,  'To  my  very  good 
health' ?'' 

But  the  Shepherd  answered : 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  ten  deaths !  I  will  only  say  it 
if  I  may  have  the  Princess  for  my  wife." 

"Then  go  to  your  death,"  cried  the  King,  and 
ordered  him  to  be  thrown  into  the  den  with  the  wild 
boars. 

The  wild  boars  had  not  been  fed  for  a  week, 
and  when  the  Shepherd  was  thrust  into  their  den 
they  rushed  at  him  to  tear  him  to  pieces.  But  the 
Shepherd  took  a  little  flute  out  of  the  sleeve  of  his 
jacket,  and  began  to  play  a  merry  tune,  on  which 
the  wild  boars  first  of  all  shrank  shyly  away,  and 
then  got  up  on  their  hind  legs  and  danced  gaily. 
The  Shepherd  would  have  given  anything  to  be 
able  to  laugh,  they  looked  so  funny;  but  he  dared 
not  stop  playing,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  the 
moment  he  stopped  they  would  fall  upon  him  and 
tear  him  to  pieces.  His  eyes  were  of  no  use  to  him 
here,  for  he  could  not  have  stared  ten  wild  boars 

185 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

in  the  face  at  once;  so  he  kept  on  playing,  and  the 
wild  boars  danced  very  slowly,  as  if  in  a  minuet; 
then  by  degrees  he  played  faster  and  faster,  till 
they  could  hardly  twist  and  turn  quickly  enough, 
and  ended  by  all  falling  over  each  other  in  a  heap, 
quite  exhausted  and  out  of  breath. 

Then  the  Shepherd  ventured  to  laugh  at  last ;  and 
he  laughed  so  long  and  so  loud  that  when  the  Lord 
Chamberlain  came  early  in  the  morning,  expecting 
to  find  only  his  bones,  the  tears  were  still  running 
down  his  cheeks  from  laughter. 

As  soon  as  the  King  was  dressed  the  Shepherd 
was  again  brought  before  him;  but  he  was  more 
angry  than  ever  to  think  the  wild  boars  had  not  torn 
the  man  to  bits,  and  he  said : 

"Well,  you  have  learned  what  it  feels  to  be  near 
ten  deaths,  now  say  To  my  good  health !'  " 

But  the  Shepherd  broke  in  with: 

"I  do  not  fear  a  hundred  deaths ;  and  I  will  only 
say  it  if  I  may  have  the  Princess  for  my  wife." 

"Then  go  to  a  hundred  deaths !"  roared  the  King, 
and  ordered  the  Shepherd  to  be  thrown  down  the 
deep  vault  of  scythes. 

The  guards  dragged  him  away  to  a  dark  dungeon, 
in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  deep  well  with  sharp 
scythes  all  round  it.  At  the  bottom  of  the  well 
was  a  little  light  by  which  one  could  see,  if  any- 
one was  thrown  in,  whether  he  had  fallen  to  the 
bottom. 

i86 


TO  YOUR  GOOD  HEALTH 

When  the  Shepherd  was  dragged  to  the  dungeon 
he  begged  the  guards  to  leave  him  alone  a  little 
while  that  he  might  look  down  into  the  pit  of 
scythes;  perhaps  he  might  after  all  make  up  his 
mind  to  say,  "To  your  good  health"  to  the  King. 

So  the  guards  left  him  alone,  and  he  stuck  up  his 
long  stick  near  the  wall,  hung  his  cloak  round  the 
stick  and  put  his  hat  on  the  top.  He  also  hung  his 
knapsack  up  beside  the  cloak,  so  that  it  might  seem 
to  have  some  body  within  it.  When  this  was  done, 
he  called  out  to  the  guards  and  said  that  he  had 
considered  the  matter,  but  after  all  he  could  not 
make  up  his  mind  to  say  what  the  King  wished. 

The  guards  came  in,  threw  the  hat  and  cloak, 
knapsack  and  stick  all  down  in  the  well  together, 
watched  to  see  how  they  put  out  the  light  at  the 
bottom,  and  came  away,  thinking  that  now  there 
was  really  an  end  of  the  Shepherd.  But  he  had 
hidden  in  a  dark  corner,  and  was  now  laughing  to 
himself  all  the  time. 

Quite  early  next  morning  came  the  Lord  Cham- 
berlain with  a  lamp,  and  he  nearly  fell  backwards 
with  surprise  when  he  saw  the  Shepherd  alive  and 
well.  He  brought  him  to  the  King,  whose  fury  was 
greater  than  ever,  but  who  cried : 

"Well,  now  you  have  been  near  a  hundred  deaths ; 
will  you  say,  'To  your  good  health'  ?" 
.     But  the  Shepherd  only  gave  the  same  answer: 

"I  won't  say  it  till  the  Princess  is  my  wife." 

187 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  you  may  do  it  for  less,*'  said 
the  King,  who  saw  that  there  was  no  chance  of 
making  away  with  the  Shepherd ;  and  he  ordered  the 
state  coach  to  be  got  ready;  then  he  made  the 
Shepherd  get  in  with  him  and  sit  beside  him,  and 
ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  silver  wood. 

When  they  reached  it,  he  said : 

"Do  you  see  this  silver  wood?  Well,  if  you  will 
say  *To  your  good  health,'  I  will  give  it  to  you." 

The  Shepherd  turned  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  but 
he  still  persisted: 

"I  will  not  say  it  till  the  Princess  is  my  wife." 

The  King  was  much  vexed ;  he  drove  further  on 
till  they  came  to  a  splendid  castle,  all  of  gold,  and 
then  he  said : 

"Do  you  see  this  golden  castle  ?  Well,  I  will  give 
you  that  too,  the  silver  wood  and  the  golden  castle, 
if  only  you  will  say  that  one  thing  to  me :  To  your 
good  health.'  " 

The  Shepherd  gaped  and  wondered,  and  was 
quite  dazzled  but  he  still  said : 

"No,  I  will  not  say  it  till  I  have  the  Princess  for 
my  wife." 

This  time  the  King  was  overwhelmed  with  grief, 
and  gave  orders  to  drive  on  to  the  diamond  pond, 
and  there  he  tried  once  more : 

"You  shall  have  them  all — all,  if  you  will  but 
say  'To  your  good  health.'  " 

The  Shepherd  had  to  shut  his  staring  eyes  tight 
i88 


TO  YOUR  GOOD  HEALTH 

not  to  be  dazzled  with  the  brilHant  pond,  but  still 
he  said: 

"No,  no;  I  will  not  say  it  till  I  have  the  Princess 
for  my  wife." 

Then  the  King  saw  that  all  his  efforts  were  use- 
less, and  that  he  might  as  well  give  in ;  so  he  said : 

"Well,  well,  it  is  all  the  same  to  me — I  will  give 
you  my  daughter  to  wife;  but  then  you  really  and 
truly  must  say  to  me,  To  your  good  health.'  " 

"Of  course  I'll  say  it;  why  should  I  not  say  it? 
It  stands  to  reason  that  I  shall  say  it  then." 

At  this  the  King  was  more  delighted  than  anyone 
could  have  believed.  He  made  it  known  all  through 
the  country  that  there  were  going  to  be  great  re- 
joicings, as  the  Princess  was  going  to  be  married. 
And  everyone  rejoiced  to  think  that  the  Princess, 
who  had  refused  so  many  royal  suitors,  should  have 
ended  by  falling  in  love  with  the  staring-eyed  Shep- 
herd. 

There  was  such  a  wedding  as  had  never  been  seen. 
Everyone  ate  and  drank  and  danced.  Even  the 
sick  were  feasted,  and  quite  tiny  new-born  chil- 
dren had  presents  given  them.  But  the  greatest 
merrymaking  was  in  the  King's  palace;  there  the 
best  bands  played  and  the  best  food  was  cooked.  A 
crowd  of  people  sat  down  to  table,  and  all  was  fun 
and  merrymaking. 

And  when  the  groomsman,  according  to  custom, 
brought  in  the  great  boar's  head  on  a  big  dish  and 

189 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

placed  it  before  the  King,  so  that  he  might  carve 
it  and  give  everyone  a  share,  the  savoury  smell  was 
so  strong  that  the  King  began  to  sneeze  with  all 
his  might. 

"To  your  very  good  health !"  cried  the  Shepherd 
before  anyone  else,  and  the  King  was  so  delighted 
that  he  did  not  regret  having  given  him  his  daugh- 
ter. 

In  time,  when  the  old  King  died,  the  Shepherd 
succeeded  him.  He  made  a  very  good  king,  and 
never  expected  his  people  to  wish  him  well  against 
their  wills :  but,  all  the  same,  everyone  did  wish  him 
well,  because  they  loved  him. 


THE   PROUD   COCK 

There  was  once  a  cock  who  grew  so  dreadfully 
proud  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  any- 
body. He  left  his  house,  it  being  far  beneath  his 
dignity  to  have  any  trammel  of  that  sort  in  his  life, 
and  as  for  his  former  acquaintance,  he  cut  them  all. 

One  day,  whilst  walking  about,  he  came  to  a  few 
little  sparks  of  fire  which  were  nearly  dead. 

They  cried  out  to  him:  "Please  fan  us  with 
your  wings,  and  we  shall  come  to  the  full  vigour 
of  life  again." 

But  he  did  not  deign  to  answer,  and  as  he  was 
going  away  one  of  the  sparks  said:  "Ah  well! 
we  shall  die,  but  our  big  brother,  the  Fire,  will  pay 
you  out  for  this  one  day." 

On  another  day  he  was  airing  himself  in  a 
meadow,  showing  himself  off  in  a  very  superb  set 
of  clothes.  A  voice  calling  from  somewhere  said: 
"Please  be  so  good  as  to  drop  us  into  the  water 
again." 

He  looked  about  and  saw  a  few  drops  of  water : 
they  had  got  separated  from  their  friends  in  the 
river,  and  were  pining  away  with  grief.  "Oh! 
please  be  so  good  as  to  drop  us  into  the  water 

191 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

again,"  they  said;  but,  without  any  answer,  he 
drank  up  the  drops.  He  was  too  proud  and  a 
great  deal  too  big  to  talk  to  a  poor  little  puddle 
of  water;  but  the  drops  said:  "Our  big  brother, 
the  Water,  will  one  day  take  you  in  hand,  you  proud 
and  senseless  creature." 

Some  days  afterwards,  during  a  great  storm  of 
rain,  thunder  and  lightning,  the  cock  took  shel- 
ter in  a  little  empty  cottage,  and  shut  to  the  door; 
and  he  thought:  *T  am  clever;  I  am  in  comfort. 
What  fools  people  are  to  stop  out  in  a  storm 
like  this!  What's  that?"  thought  he.  "I  never 
heard  a  sound  like  that  before." 

In  a  little  while  it  grew  much  louder,  and  when 
a  few  minutes  had  passed,  it  was  a  perfect  howl. 
"Oh!"  thought  he,  "this  well  never  do.  I  must 
stop  it  somehow.     But  what  is  it  I  have  to  stop?" 

He  soon  found  it  was  the  wind,  shouting  through 
the  keyhole,  so  he  plugged  up  the  keyhole  with 
a  bit  of  clay,  and  then  the  wind  was  able  to  rest. 
He  was  very  tired  with  whistling  so  long  through 
the  keyhole,  and  he  said:  "Now,  if  ever  I  have 
at  any  time  a  chance  of  doing  a  good  turn  to 
that  princely  domestic  fowl,  I  will  do  it." 

Weeks  afterwards,  the  cock  looked  in  at  a 
house  door:  he  seldom  went  there,  because  the 
miser  to  whom  the  house  belonged  almost  starved 
himself,  and  so,  of  course,  there  was  nothing  over 
for  anybody  else. 

192 


THE  PROUD  COCK 

To  his  amazement  the  cock  saw  the  miser  bend- 
ing over  a  pot  on  the  fire.  At  last  the  old  fellow 
turned  round  to  get  a  spoon  with  which  to  stir 
his  pot,  and  then  the  cock,  waking  up,  looked  in 
and  saw  that  the  miser  was  making  oyster-soup, 
for  he  had  found  some  oyster-shells  in  an  ash-pit, 
and  to  give  the  mixture  a  colour  he  had  put  in  a 
few  halfpence  in  the  pot. 

The  miser  chanced  to  turn  quickly  round,  while 
the  cock  was  peering  into  the  saucepan,  and,  chuck- 
ling to  himself,  he  said :  *T  shall  have  some  chicken 
broth  after  all." 

He  tripped  up  the  cock  into  the  pot  and  shut 
the  lid  on.  The  bird,  feeling  warm,  said  :  "Water, 
water,  don't  boil !"  But  the  water  only  said : 
"You  drank  up  my  young  brothers  once :  don't  ask 
a  favour  of  me/' 

Then  he  called  out  to  the  Fire :  "Oh !  kind  Fire, 
don't  boil  the  water."  But  the  Fire  replied :  "You 
once  let  my  young  sisters  die:  you  cannot  expect 
any  mercy  from  me."  So  he  flared  up  and  boiled 
the  water  all  the  faster. 

At  last,  when  the  cock  got  unpleasantly  warm, 
he  thought  of  the  wind,  and  called  out :  "Oh,  Wind, 
come  to  my  help!"  and  the  Wind  said:  "Why, 
there  is  that  noble  domestic  bird  in  trouble.  I 
will  help  him."  So  he  came  down  the  chimney, 
blew  out  the  fire,  blew  the  lid  off  the  pot,  and  blew 
the  cock  far  away  into  the  air,  and  at  last  settled 

193 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

him  on  a  steeple,  where  the  cock  has  remained 
ever  since.  And  people  say  that  the  halfpence 
which  were  in  the  pot  when  it  was  boiling  have 
given  him  the  queer  brown  colour  he  still  wears. 

From  the  Spanish. 


SNEGOURKA 

There  lived  once,  in  Russia,  a  peasant  and  his 
wife  who  would  have  been  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long,  if  only  God  had  given  them  a  little  child. 

One  day,  as  they  were  watching  the  children 
playing  in  the  snow,  the  man  said  to  the  woman : 

"Wife,  shall  we  go  out  and  help  the  children 
make  a  snowball?'* 

But  the  wife  answered,  smiling: 

"Nay,  husband,  but  since  God  has  given  us  no 
little  child,  let  us  go  and  fashion  one  from  the 
snow." 

And  she  put  on  her  long  blue  cloak,  and  he 
put  on  his  long  brown  coat,  and  they  went  out 
onto  the  crisp  snow,  and  began  to  fashion  the  lit- 
tle child. 

First,  they  made  the  feet  and  the  legs  and  the 
little  body,  and  then  they  took  a  ball  of  snow  for 
the  head.  And  at  that  moment  a  stranger  in  a 
long  cloak,  with  his  hat  well  drawn  over  his  face, 
passed  that  way,  and  said:  "Heaven  help  your 
undertaking!" 

And  the  peasants  crossed  themselves  and  said: 
"It  is  well  to  ask  help  from  Heaven  in  all  we  do." 

195 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Then  they  went  on  fashioning  the  little  child. 
And  they  made  two  holes  for  the  eyes  and  formed 
the  nose  and  the  mouth.  And  then — wonder  of 
wonders — the  little  child  came  alive,  and  breath 
came   from  its  nostrils  and  parted  lips. 

And  the  man  was  a  feared,  and  said  to  his  wife : 
"What  have  we  done?" 

And  the  wife  said :  "This  is  the  little  girl  child 
God  has  sent  us."  And  she  gathered  it  into  her 
arms,  and  the  loose  snow  fell  away  from  the  lit- 
tle creature.  Her  hair  became  golden  and  her 
eyes  were  as  blue  as  forget-me-nots — ^but  there 
was  no  colour  in  her  cheeks,  because  there  was 
no  blood  in  her  veins. 

In  a  few  days  she  was  like  a  child  of  three  or 
four,  and  in  a  few  weeks  she  seemed  to  be  the 
age  of  nine  or  ten,  and  ran  about  gaily  and  prat- 
tled with  the  other  children,  who  loved  her  so 
dearly,   though   she  was  so  different   from  them. 

Only,  happy  as  she  was,  and  dearly  as  her  par- 
ents loved  her,  there  was  one  terror  in  her  life, 
and  that  was  the  sun.  And  during  the  day  she 
would  run  and  hide  herself  in  cool,  damp  places 
away  from  the  sunshine,  and  this  the  other  chil- 
dren could  not  understand. 

As  the  Spring  advanced  and  the  days  grew  longer 
and  warmer,  little  Snegourka  (for  this  was  the 
name  by  which  she  was  known)  grew  paler  and 
thinner,    and   her   mother  would   often   ask   her: 

196 


SNEGOURKA 

"What  ails  you,  my  darling?"  and  Snegourka  would 
say:  "Nothing,  Mother,  but  I  wish  the  sun  were 
not  so  bright." 

One  day,  on  St.  John's  Day,  the  children  of 
the  village  came  to  fetch  her  for  a  day  in  the  woods, 
and  they  gathered  flowers  for  her  and  did  all  they 
could  to  make  her  happy,  but  it  was  only  when 
the  great  red  sun  went  down  that  Snegourka  drew 
a  deep  breath  of  relief  and  spread  her  little  hands 
out  to  the  cool  evening  air.  And  the  boys,  glad  at 
her  gladness,  said :  "Let  us  do  something  for 
Snegourka.  Let  us  light  a  bonfire."  And  Sne- 
gourka not  knowing  what  a  bonfire  was,  she  clapped 
her  hands  and  was  as  merry  and  eager  as  they. 
And  she  helped  them  gather  the  sticks,  and  then 
they  all  stood  round  the  pile  and  the  boys  set  fire 
to  the  wood. 

Snegourka  stood  watching  the  flames  and  lis- 
tening to  the  crackle  of  the  wood;  and  then  sud- 
denly they  heard  a  tiny  sound — and  looking  at 
the  place  where  Snegourka  had  been  standing,  they 
saw  nothing  but  a  little  snow-drift  fast  melting. 
And  they  called  and  called,  "Snegourka!  Snegour- 
ka!" thinking  she  had  run  into  the  forest.  But 
there  was  no  answer.  Snegourka  had  disappeared 
from  this  life  as  mysteriously  as  she  had  come 
into  it. 

Adapted  by  the  author 


197 


THE  WATER  NIXIE 

The  river  was  so  clear  because  it  was  the  home 
of  a  very  beautiful  Water  Nixie  who  lived  in  it, 
and  who  sometimes  could  emerge  from  her  home 
and  sit  in  woman's  form  upon  the  bank.  She  had 
a  dark  green  smock  upon  her,  the  colour  of  the 
water-weed  that  waves  as  the  water  wills  it,  deep, 
deep  down.  And  in  her  long  wet  hair  were  the 
white  flowers  of  the  water-violet,  and  she  held  a 
reed  mace  in  her  hand.  Her  face  was  very  sad, 
because  she  had  lived  a  long  life,  and  known  so 
many  adventures,  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  which 
was  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago.  For  creatures 
of  the  streams  and  trees  live  a  long,  long  time, 
and  when  they  die  they  lose  themselves  in  Nature. 
That  means  that  they  are  forever  clouds,  or  trees, 
or  rivers,  and  never  have  the  form  of  men  and 
women  again. 

All  water  creatures  would  live,  if  they  might 
choose  it,  in  the  sea,  where  they  are  born.  It  is  in 
the  sea  they  float  hand-in-hand  upon  the  crested 
billows,  and  sink  deep  in  the  great  troughs  of  the 
strong  waves,  that  are  green  as  jade.     They  fol- 

198 


THE  WATER  NIXIE 

low  the   foam  and   lose  themselves   in  the  wide 
ocean, — • 

Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail  with  unshut  eye; 
And  they  store  in  the  Sea  King's  palace 
The  golden  phosphor  of  the  sea. 

But  this  Water  Nixie  had  lost  her  happiness 
through  not  being  good.  She  had  forgotten  many 
things  that  had  been  told  her,  and  she  had  done 
many  things  that  grieved  others.  She  had  stolen 
somebody  else's  property — quite  a  large  bundle  of 
happiness — which  belonged  elsewhere  and  not  to 
her.  Happiness  is  generally  made  to  fit  the  per- 
son who  owns  it,  just  as  do  your  shoes,  or  clothes ; 
so  that  when  you  take  someone  else's  it's  very  little 
good  to  you,  for  it  fits  badly,  and  you  can  never 
forget  it  isn't  yours. 

So  what  with  one  thing  and  another,  this  Water 
Nixie  had  to  be  punished,  and  the  Queen  of  the 
Sea  had  banished  her  from  the  waves.^ 

"You  shall  live  for  a  long  time  in  little  places, 
where  you  will  weary  of  yourself.  You  will  learn 
to  know  yourself  so  well  that  everything  you  want 
will  seem  too  good  for  you,  and  you  will  cease 
to  claim  it.     And  so,  in  time,  you  shall  get  free." 

Then  the  Nixie  had  to  rise  up  and  go  away, 

^  "The  punishment  that  can  most  affect  Merfolk  is  to  re- 
strict their  freedom.  And  this  is  how  the  Queen  of  the  Sea 
punished  the  Nixie  of  our  tale." 

199 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

and  be  shut  into  the  fastness  of  a  very  small  space, 
according  to  the  words  of  the  Queen.  And  this 
small  space  was — a  tear. 

At  first  she  could  hardly  express  her  misery,  and 
by  thinking  so  continuously  of  the  wideness  and 
savour  of  the  sea,  she  brought  a  dash  of  the  brine 
with  her,  that  makes  the  saltness  of  our  tears.  She 
became  many  times  smaller  than  her  own  stature; 
even  then,  by  standing  upright  and  spreading  wide 
her  arms,  she  touched  with  her  finger-tips  the  walls 
of  her  tiny  crystal  home.  How  she  longed  that 
this  tear  might  be  wept,  and  the  walls  of  her  prison 
shattered!  But  the  owner  of  this  tear  was  of  a 
very  proud  nature,  and  she  was  so  sad  that  tears 
seemed  to  her  in  no  wise  to  express  her  grief. 

She  was  a  Princess  who  lived  in  a  country  that 
was  not  her  home.  What  were  tears  to  her?  If 
she  could  have  stood  on  the  top  of  the  very  highest 
hill  and  with  both  hands  caught  the  great  winds  of 
heaven,  strong  as  they,  and  striven  with  them,  per- 
haps she  might  have  felt  as  if  she  expressed  all 
she  knew.  Or,  if  she  could  have  torn  down  the 
stars  from  the  heavens,  or  cast  her  mantle  over 
the  sun.  But  tears!  Would  they  have  helped  to 
tell  her  sorrow?  You  cry  if  you  soil  your  copy- 
book, don't  you  ?  or  pinch  your  hand  ?  So  you  may 
imagine  the  Nixie's  home  was  a  safe  one,  and  she 
turned  round  and  round  in  the  captivity  of  that 
tear. 

200 


THE  WATER  NIXIE 

For  twenty  years  she  dwelt  in  that  strong  heart, 
till  she  grew  to  be  accustomed  to  her  cell.  At  last, 
in  this  wise  came  her  release. 

An  old  gipsy  came  one  morning  to  the  Castle 
and  begged  to  see  the  Princess.  She  must  see  her, 
she  cried.  And  the  Princess  came  down  the  steps 
to  meet  her,  and  the  gipsy  gave  her  a  small  roll 
of  paper  in  her  hand.  And  the  roll  of  paper  smelt 
like  honey  as  she  took  it,  and  it  adhered  to  her 
palm  as  she  opened  it.  There  was  little  sign  of 
writing  on  the  paper,  but  in  the  midst  of  the  page 
was  a  picture,  small  as  the  picture  reflected  in  the 
iris  of  an  eye.  The  picture  shewed  a  hill,  with 
one  tree  on  the  sky-line,  and  a  long  road  wound 
round  the  hill. 

And  suddenly  in  the  Princess'  memory  a  voice 
spoke  to  her.  Many  sounds  she  heard,  gathered  up 
into  one  great  silence,  like  the  quiet  there  is  in 
forest  spaces,  when  it  is  Summer  and  the  green 
is  deep: — 

"Blessed  are  they  that  have  the  home  longing, 
For  they  shall  go  home." 

Then  the  Princess  gave  the  gipsy  two  golden 
pieces,  and  went  up  to  her  chamber,  and  long  that 
night  she  sat,  looking  out  upon  the  sky. 

She  had  no  need  to  look  upon  the  honeyed  scroll, 
though  she  held  it  closely.  Clearly  before  her  did 
she  see  that  small  picture:  the  hill,  and  the  tree, 

201 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

and  the  winding  road,  imaged  as  if  mirrored  in 
the  iris  of  an  eye.  And  in  her  memory  she  was 
upon  that  road,  and  the  hill  rose  beside  her,  and 
the  little  tree  was  outlined,  every  twig  of  it, 
against  the  sky. 

And  as  she  saw  all  this,  an  overwhelming  love 
of  the  place  arose  in  her,  a  love  of  that  certain 
bit  of  country  that  was  so  sharp  and  strong,  that 
it  stung  and  swayed  her,  as  she  leaned  on  the 
window-sill. 

And  because  the  love  of  a  country  is  one  of  the 
deepest  loves  you  may  feel,  the  band  of  her  con- 
trol was  loosened,  and  the  tears  came  welling  to  her 
eyes.  Up  they  brimmed  and  over  in  salty  rush  and 
follow,  dimming  her  eyes,  magnifying  everything, 
speared  for  a  moment  on  her  eyelashes,  then  shim- 
mering to  their  fall.  And  at  last  came  the  tear  that 
held  the  disobedient  Nixie. 

Splish!  it  fell.    And  she  was  free. 

If  you  could  have  seen  how  pretty  she  looked 
standing  there,  about  the  height  of  a  grass-blade, 
wringing  out  her  long  wet  hair.  Every  bit  of 
moisture  she  wrung  out  of  it,  she  was  so  glad  to 
be  quit  of  that  tear.  Then  she  raised  her  two  arms 
above  her  in  one  delicious  stretch,  and  if  you  had 
been  the  size  of  a  mustard-seed  perhaps  you  might 
have  heard  her  laughing.  Then  she  grew  a  little, 
and  grew  and  grew,  till  she  was  about  the  height 
of  a  bluebell,  and  as  slender  to  see. 

202 


THE  WATER  NIXIE 

She  stood  looking  at  the  splash  on  the  window- 
sill  that  had  been  her  prison  so  long,  and  then, 
with  three  steps  of  her  bare  feet,  she  reached  the 
jessamine  that  was  growing  by  the  window,  and 
_  by  this  she  swung  herself  to  the  ground. 

Away  she  sped  over  the  dew-drenched  meadows 
till  she  came  to  the  running  brook,  and  with  all 
her  longing  in  her  outstretched  hands,  she  kneeled 
down  by  the  crooked  willows  among  all  the  com  fry 
and  the  loosestrife,  and  the  yellow  irises  and  the 
reeds. 

Then  she  slid  into  the  wide,  cool  stream. 
From  "The  Children  and  the  Pictures." 
Pamela  Tennant  (Lady  Glenconner). 


THE   BLUE   ROSE 

There  lived  once  upon  a  time  in  China  a  wise 
Emperor  who  had  one  daughter.  His  daughter 
was  remarkable  for  her  perfect  beauty.  Her  feet 
were  the  smallest  in  the  world;  her  eyes  were 
long  and  slanting  and  bright  as  brown  onyxes,  and 
when  you  heard  her  laugh  it  was  like  listening  to 
a  tinkling  stream  or  to  the  chimes  of  a  silver  bell. 
Moreover,  the  Emperor's  daughter  was  as  wise 
as  she  was  beautiful,  and  she  chanted  the  verse 
of  the  great  poets  better  than  anyone  in  the  land. 
The  Emperor  was  old  in  years;  his  son  was  mar- 
ried and  had  begotten  a  son;  he  was,  therefore, 
quite  happy  with  regard  to  the  succession  to  the 
throne,  but  he  wished  before  he  died  to  see  his 
daughter  wedded  to  someone  who  should  be  worthy 
of  her. 

Many  suitors  presented  themselves  to  the  palace 
as  soon  as  it  became  known  that  the  Emperor 
desired  a  son-in-law,  but  when  they  reached  the 
palace  they  were  met  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain, 
who  told  them  that  the  Emperor  had  decided  that 
only  the  man  who  found  and  brought  back  the  blue 
rose  should  marry  his  daughter.    The  suitors  were 

204 


THE  BLUE  ROSE 

much  puzzled  by  this  order.  What  was  the  blue 
rose  and  where  was  it  to  be  found  ?  In  all,  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  suitors  had  presented  themselves,  and 
out  of  these  fifty  at  once  put  away  from  them 
all  thought  of  winning  the  hand  of  the  Emperor's 
daughter,  since  they  considered  the  condition  im- 
posed to  be  absurd. 

The  other  hundred  set  about  trying  to  find  the 
blue  rose.  One  of  them — his  name  was  Ti-Fun- 
Ti — he  was  a  merchant  and  was  immensely  rich, 
at  once  went  to  the  largest  shop  in  the  town  and 
said  to  the  shopkeeper,  "I  want  a  blue  rose,  the 
best  you  have." 

The  shopkeeper,  with  many  apologies,  explained 
that  he  did  not  stock  blue  roses.  He  had  red  roses 
in  profusion,  white,  pink,  and  yellow  roses,  but  no 
blue  roses.  There  had  hitherto  been  no  demand 
for  the  article. 

"Well,"  said  Ti-Fun-Ti,  "you  must  get  one  for 
me.  I  do  not  mind  how  much  money  it  costs, 
but  I  must  have  a  blue  rose." 

The  shopkeeper  said  he  would  do  his  best,  but 
he  feared  it  would  be  an  expensive  article  and 
difficult  to  procure.  Another  of  the  suitors,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten,  was  a  warrior,  and  ex- 
tremely brave;  he  mounted  his  horse,  and  taking 
with  him  a  hundred  archers  and  a  thousand  horse- 
men, he  marched  into  the  territory  of  the  King  of 
the  Five  Rivers,  whom  he  knew  to  be  the  richest 

205 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

king  in  the  world  and  the  possessor  of  the  rarest 
treasures,  and  demanded  of  him  the  blue  rose, 
threatening  him  with  a  terrible  doom  should  he 
be  reluctant  to  give  it  up. 

The  King  of  the  Five  Rivers,  who  disliked  sol- 
diers, and  had  a  horror  of  noise,  physical  violence, 
and  every  kind  of  fuss  (his  bodyguard  was  armed 
solely  with  fans  and  sunshades),  rose  from  the 
cushions  on  which  he  was  lying  when  the  demand 
was  made,  and,  tinkling  a  small  bell,  said  to  the 
servant  who  straightway  appeared,  "Fetch  me  the 
blue  rose." 

The  servant  retired  and  returned  presently  bear- 
ing on  a  silken  cushion  a  large  sapphire  which 
was  carved  so  as  to  imitate  a  full-blown  rose  with 
all  its  petals. 

"This,"  said  the  King  of  the  Five  Rivers,  "is 
the  blue  rose.    You  are  welcome  to  it." 

The  warrior  took  it,  and  after  making  brief,  sol- 
dier-like thanks,  he  went  straight  back  to  the  Em- 
peror's palace,  saying  that  he  had  lost  no  time  in 
finding  the  blue  rose.  He  was  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  the  Emperor,  who  as  soon  as  he  heard 
the  warrior's  story  and  saw  the  blue  rose  which 
had  been  brought  sent  for  his  daughter  and  said 
to  her:  "This  intrepid  warrior  has  brought  you 
what  he  claims  to  be  the  blue  rose.  Has  he  ac- 
complished the  quest?" 

The  Princess  took  the  precious  object  in  her 
206 


THE  BLUE  ROSE 

hands,  and  after  examining  it  for  a  moment,  said : 
"This  is  not  a  rose  at  all.  It  is  a  sapphire ;  I  have 
no  need  of  precious  stones."  And  she  returned 
the  stone  to  the  warrior  with  many  elegantly  ex- 
pressed thanks.  And  the  warrior  went  away  in 
discomfiture. 

The  merchant,  hearing  of  the  warrior's  failure, 
was  all  the  more  anxious  to  win  the  prize.  He 
sought  the  shopkeeper  and  said  to  him:  "Have 
you  got  me  the  blue  rose?  I  trust  you  have;  be- 
cause, if  not,  I  shall  most  assuredly  be  the  means 
of  your  death.  My  brother-in-law  is  chief  magis- 
trate, and  I  am  allied  by  marriage  to  all  the  chief 
officials  in  the  kingdom." 

The  shopkeeper  turned  pale  and  said :  "Sir,  give 
me  three  days  and  I  will  procure  you  the  rose 
without  fail."  The  merchant  granted  him  the  three 
days  and  went  away.  Now  the  shopkeeper  was  at 
his  wit's  end  as  to  what  to  do,  for  he  knew  well 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  a  blue  rose.  For  two 
days  he  did  nothing  but  moan  and  wring  his  hands, 
and  on  the  third  day  he  went  to  his  wife  and  said, 
"Wife,  we  are  ruined." 

But  his  wife,  who  was  a  sensible  woman,  said: 
"Nonsense.  H  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  blue 
rose  we  must  make  one.  Go  to  the  chemist  and 
ask  him  for  a  strong  dye  which  will  change  a  white 
rose  into  a  blue  one." 

So  the  shopkeeper  went  to  the  chemist  and  asked 
207 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

him  for  a  dye,  and  the  chemist  gave  him  a  bottle 
of  red  liquid,  telling  him  to  pick  a  white  rose  and 
to  dip  its  stalk  into  the  liquid  and  the  rose  would 
turn  blue.  The  shopkeeper  did  as  he  was  told; 
the  rose  turned  into  a  beautiful  blue  and  the  shop- 
keeper took  it  to  the  merchant,  who  at  once  went 
with  it  to  the  palace  saying  that  he  had  found 
the  blue  rose. 

He  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  Em- 
peror, who  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  blue  rose  sent 
for  his  daughter  and  said  to  her:  "This  wealthy 
merchant  has  brought  you  what  he  claims  to  be 
the  blue  rose.    Has  he  accomplished  the  quest?" 

The  Princess  took  the  flower  in  her  hands  and 
after  examining  it  for  a  moment  said:  "This  is 
a  white  rose,  its  stalk  has  been  dipped  in  a  poison- 
ous dye  and  it  has  turned  blue.  Were  a  butterfly 
to  settle  upon  it  it  would  die  of  the  potent  fume. 
Take  it  back.  I  have  no  need  of  a  dyed  rose." 
And  she  returned  it  to  the  merchant  with  many 
elegantly  expressed  thanks. 

The  other  ninety-eight  suitors  all  sought  In  va- 
rious ways  for  the  blue  rose.  Some  of  them  trav- 
eled all  over  the  world  seeking  it;  some  of  them 
sought  the  aid  of  wizards  and  astrologers,  and 
one  did  not  hesitate  to  invoke  the  help  of  the 
dwarfs  that  live  underground;  but  all  of  them, 
whether  they  traveled  in  far  countries  or  took 
counsel  with  wizards  and  demons  or  sat  ponder- 

208 


THE  BLUE  ROSE 

ing  in  lonely  places,  failed  to  find  the  blue  rose. 

At  last  they  all  abandoned  the  quest  except  the 
Lord  Chief  Justice,  who  was  the  most  skillful  law- 
yer and  statesman  in  the  country.  After  thinking 
over  the  matter  for  several  months  he  sent  for  the 
most  famous  artist  in  the  country  and  said  to  him : 
"Make  me  a  china  cup.  Let  it  be  milk-white  in 
colour  and  perfect  in  shape,  and  paint  on  it  a  rose, 
a  blue  rose." 

The  artist  made  obeisance  and  withdrew,  and 
worked  for  two  months  at  the  Lord  Chief  Justice's 
cup.  In  two  months'  time  it  was  finished,  and  the 
world  has  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  cup,  so  per- 
fect in  symmetry,  so  delicate  in  texture,  and  the 
rose  on  it,  the  blue  rose,  was  a  living  flower,  picked 
in  fairyland  and  floating  on  the  rare  milky  surface 
of  the  porcelain.  When  the  Lord  Chief  Justice 
saw  it  he  gasped  with  surprise  and  pleasure,  for  he 
was  a  great  lover  of  porcelain,  and  never  in  his 
life  had  he  seen  such  a  piece.  He  said  to  himself, 
"Without  doubt  the  blue  rose  is  here  on  this  cup 
and  nowhere  else." 

So,  after  handsomely  rewarding  the  artist,  he 
went  to  the  Emperor's  palace  and  said  that  he  had 
brought  the  blue  rose.  He  was  ushered  into  the 
Emperor's  presence,  who  as  he  saw  the  cup  sent  for 
his  daughter  and  said  to  her:  "This  eminent  law- 
yer has  brought  you  what  he  claims  to  be  the  blue 
rose.     Has  he  accomplished  the  quest?" 

209 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  Princess  took  the  bowl  in  her  hands,  and 
after  examining  it  for  a  moment  said :  'This  bowl 
is  the  most  beautiful  piece  of  china  I  have  ever 
seen.  If  you  are  kind  enough  to  let  me  keep  it  I 
will  put  it  aside  until  I  receive  the  blue  rose.  For 
so  beautiful  is  it  that  no  other  flower  is  worthy 
to  be  put  in  it  except  the  blue  rose." 

The  Lord  Chief  Justice  thanked  the  Princess  for 
accepting  the  bowl  with  many  elegantly  turned 
phrases,  and  he  went  away  in  discomfiture. 

After  this  there  was  no  one  in  the  whole  coun- 
try who  ventured  on  the  quest  of  the  blue  rose. 
It  happened  that  not  long  after  the  Lord  Chief 
Justice's  attempt  a  strolling  minstrel  visited  the 
kingdom  of  the  Emperor.  One  evening  he  was 
playing  his  one-stringed  instrument  outside  a  dark 
wall.  It  was  a  summer's  evening,  and  the  sun  had 
sunk  in  a  glory  of  dusty  gold,  and  in  the  violet 
twilight  one  or  two  stars  were  twinkling  like  spear- 
heads. There  was  an  incessant  noise  made  by  the 
croaking  of  frogs  and  the  chatter  of  grasshoppers. 
The  minstrel  was  singing  a  short  song  over  and  over 
again  to  a  monotonous  tune.  The  sense  of  it  was 
something  like  this : 

I  watched  beside  the  willow  trees 
The  river,  as  the  evening  fell, 

The  twilight  came  and  brought  no  breeze. 
Nor  dew,  nor  water  for  the  well. 


210 


THE  BLUE  ROSE 

When  from  the  tangled  banks  of  grass 

A  bird  across  the  water  flew, 
And  in  the  river's  hard  grey  glass 

I  saw  a  flash  of  azure  blue. 

As  he  sang  he  heard  a  rustle  on  the  wall,  and 
looking  up  he  saw  a  slight  figure  white  against 
the  twilight,  beckoning  to  him.  He  walked  along 
under  the  wall  until  he  came  to  a  gate,  and  there 
someone  was  waiting  for  him,  and  he  was  gently 
led  into  the  shadow  of  a  dark  cedar  tree.  In  the 
dim  twilight  he  saw  two  bright  eyes  looking  at  him, 
and  he  understood  their  message.  In  the  twilight 
a  thousand  meaningless  nothings  were  whispered 
in  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  the  hours  fled  swiftly. 
When  the  East  began  to  grow  light,  the  Princess 
(for  it  was  she)  said  it  was  time  to  go. 

"But,"  said  the  minstrel,  "to-morrow  I  shall  come 
to  the  palace  and  ask  for  your  hand.'* 

"Alas!"  said  the  Princess,  "I  would  that  were 
possible,  but  my  father  has  made  a  foolish  con- 
dition that  only  he  may  wed  me  who  finds  the  blue 
rose." 

"That  is  simple,"  said  the  minstrel.  "I  will  find 
it."    And  they  said  good  night  to  each  other. 

The  next  morning  the  minstrel  went  to  the  palace, 
and  on  his  way  he  picked  a  common  white  rose 
from  a  wayside  garden.  He  was  ushered  into  the 
Emperor's  presence,  who  sent  for  his  daughter  and 
said  to  her:    "This  penniless  minstrel  has  brought 

211 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

you  what  he  claims  to  be  the  blue  rose.     Has  he 
accomplished  the  quest?" 

The  Princess  took  the  rose  in  her  hands  and 
said:     **Yes,  this  is  without  doubt  the  blue  rose." 

But  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  and  all  who  were 
present  respectfully  pointed  out  that  the  rose  was 
a  common  white  rose  and  not  a  blue  one,  and  the 
objection  was  with  many  forms  and  phrases  con- 
veyed to  the  Princess. 

*T  think  the  rose  is  blue,"  said  the  Princess. 
"Perhaps  you  are  all  colour  blind." 

The  Emperor,  with  whom  the  decision  rested, 
decided  that  if  the  Princess  thought  the  rose  was 
blue  it  was  blue,  for  it  was  well  known  that  her 
perception  was  more  acute  than  that  of  any  one 
else  in  the  kingdom. 

So  the  minstrel  married  the  Princess,  and  they 
settled  on  the  sea  coast  in  a  little  seen  house  with 
a  garden  full  of  white  roses,  and  they  lived  hap- 
pily for  ever  afterwards.  And  the  Emperor,  know- 
ing that  his  daughter  had  made  a  good  match,  died 
in  peace. 

Maurice  Baring. 


THE   TWO   FROGS 

Once  upon  a  time  in  the  country  of  Japan  there 
lived  two  frogs,  one  of  whom  made  his  home  in  a 
ditch  near  the  town  of  Osaka,  on  the  sea  coast, 
while  the  other  dwelt  in  a  clear  little  stream  which 
ran  through  the  city  of  Kioto.  At  such  a  great  dis- 
tance apart,  they  had  never  even  heard  of  each 
other;  but,  funnily  enough,  the  idea  came  into 
both  their  heads  at  once  that  the)^  should  like  to 
see  a  little  of  the  world,  and  the  frog  who  lived 
at  Kioto  wanted  to  visit  Osaka,  and  the  frog  who 
lived  at  Osaka  wished  to  go  to  Kioto,  where  the 
great  Mikado  had  his  palace. 

So  one  fine  morning  in  the  spring,  they  both  set 
out  along  the  road  that  led  from  Kioto  to  Osaka, 
one  from  one  end  and  the  other  from  the  other. 

The  journey  was  more  tiring  than  they  expected, 
for  they  did  not  know  much  about  travelling,  and 
half-way  between  the  two  towns  there  rose  a  moun- 
tain which  had  to  be  climbed.  It  took  them  a  long 
time  and  a  great  many  hops  to  reach  the  top,  but 
there  they  were  at  last,  and  what  was  the  surprise 
of  each  to  see  another  frog  before  him!  They 
looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  without  speak- 

213 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

ing,  and  then  fell  into  conversation,  and  explained 
the  cause  of  their  meeting  so  far  from  their  homes. 
It  was  delightful  to  find  that  they  both  felt  the  same 
wish — to  learn  a  little  more  of  their  native  country 
— and  as  there  was  no  sort  of  hurry  they  stretched 
themselves  out  in  a  cool,  damp  place,  and  agreed 
that  they  would  have  a  good  rest  before  they  parted 
to  go  their  ways. 

*'What  a  pity  we  are  not  bigger,"  said  the  Osaka 
frog,  "and  then  we  could  see  both  towns  from  here 
and  tell  if  it  is  worth  our  while  going  on." 

"Oh,  that  is  easily  managed,"  returned  the  Kioto 
frog.  "We  have  only  got  to  stand  up  on  our  hind 
legs,  and  hold  on  to  each  other,  and  then  we  can 
each  look  at  the  town  he  is  travelling  to." 

This  idea  pleased  the  Osaka  frog  so  much  that  he 
at  once  jumped  up  and  put  his  front  paws  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  friend,  who  had  risen  also.  There 
they  both  stood,  stretching  themselves  as  high  as 
they  could,  and  holding  each  other  tightly,  so  that 
they  might  not  fall  down.  The  Kioto  frog  turned 
his  nose  towards  Osaka,  and  the  Osaka  frog  turned 
his  nose  towards  Kioto;  but  the  foolish  things  for- 
got that  when  they  stood  up  their  great  eyes  lay 
in  the  backs  of  their  heads,  and  that  though  their 
noses  might  point  to  the  places  to  which  they  wanted 
to  go,  their  eyes  beheld  the  places  from  which  they 
had  come. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  the  Osaka  frog;  "Kioto  is  ex- 
214 


THE  TWO  FROGS 

actly  like  Osaka.     It  is  certainly  not  worth  such  a 
long  journey.     I  shall  go  home." 

"If  I  had  had  any  idea  that  Osaka  was  only  a 
copy  of  Kioto  I  should  never  have  travelled  all  this 
way,"  exclaimed  the  frog  from  Kioto,  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  took  his  hands  from  his  friend's  shoulders 
and  they  both  fell  down  on  the  grass. 

Then  they  took  a  polite  farewell  of  each  other, 
and  set  off  for  home  again,  and  to  the  end  of  their 
lives  they  believed  that  Osaka  and  Kioto,  which  are 
as  different  to  look  at  as  two  towns  can  be,  were  as 
like  as  two  peas. 

The  Violet  Loving  Book. 


THE   WISE   OLD    SHEPHERD 

Once  upon  a  time  a  Snake  went  out  of  his  hole 
to  take  an  airing.  He  crawled  about,  greatly  en- 
joying the  scenery  and  the  fresh  whiff  of  the  breeze, 
until,  seeing  an  open  door,  he  went  in.  Now  this 
door  was  the  door  of  the  palace  of  the  King,  and  in- 
side was  the  King  himself,  with  all  his  courtiers. 

Imagine  their  horror  at  seeing  a  huge  Snake 
crawling  in  at  the  door.  They  all  ran  away  except 
the  King,  who  felt  that  his  rank  forbade  him  to 
be  a  coward,  and  the  King's  son.  The  King  called 
out  for  somebody  to  come  and  kill  the  Snake; 
but  this  horrified  them  still  more,  because  in  that 
country  the  people  believed  it  to  be  wicked  to  kill 
any  living  thing,  even  snakes  and  scorpions  and 
wasps.  So  the  courtiers  did  nothing,  but  the  young 
Prince  obeyed  his  father,  and  killed  the  Snake  with 
his  stick. 

After  a  while  the  Snake's  wife  became  anxious 
and  set  out  in  search  of  her  husband.  She  too  saw 
the  open  door  of  the  palace,  and  in  she  went.  O 
horror !  there  on  the  floor  lay  the  body  of  her  hus- 
band, all  covered  with  blood  and  quite  dead.  No 
one  saw  the  Snake's  wife  crawl  in;  she  inquired 

216 


THE  WISE  OLD  SHEPHERD 

of  a  white  ant  what  had  happened,  and  when  she 
found  that  the  young  Prince  had  killed  her  hus- 
band, she  made  a  vow  that,  as  he  had  made  her  a 
widow,  so  she  would  make  his  wife  a  widow. 

That  night,  when  all  the  world  was  asleep,  the 
Snake  crept  into  the  Prince's  bedroom,  and  coiled 
round  his  neck.  The  Prince  slept  on,  and  when  he 
awoke  in  the  morning,  he  was  surprised  to  find  his 
neck  encircled  with  the  coils  of  a  snake.  He  was 
afraid  to  stir,  so  there  he  remained,  until  the 
Prince's  mother  became  anxious  and  went  to  see 
what  was  the  matter.  When  she  entered  his  room, 
and  saw  him  in  this  plight,  she  gave  a  loud  shriek, 
and  ran  off  to  tell  the  King. 

"Call  the  archers,'*  said  the  King. 

The  archers  came,  and  the  King  told  them  to  go 
to  the  Prince's  room,  and  shoot  the  Snake  that  was 
coiled  about  his  neck.  They  were  so  clever,  that 
they  could  easily  do  this  without  hurting  the  Prince 
at  all. 

In  came  the  archers  in^a  row,  fitted  the  arrows 
to  the  bows,  the  bows  were  raised  and  ready  to 
shoot,  when,  on  a  sudden,  from  the  Snake  there 
issued  a  voice  which  spoke  as  follows : 

"O  archers,  wait,  wait  and  hear  me  before  you 
shoot.  It  is  not  fair  to  carry  out  the  sentence  be- 
fore you  have  heard  the  case.  Is  not  this  a  good 
law :  an  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth  ?  Is 
it  not  so,  O  King?" 

217 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

"Yes,"   replied  the  King,  "that  is  our  law." 

"Then,"  said  the  Snake,  "I  plead  the  law.  Your 
son  has  made  me  a  widow,  so  it  is  fair  and  right 
that  I  should  make  his  wife  a  widow." 

"That  sounds  right  enough,"  said  the  King,  "but 
right  and  law  are  not  always  the  same  thing.  We 
had  better  ask  somebody  who  knows." 

They  asked  all  the  judges,  but  none  of  them  could 
tell  the  law  of  the  matter.  They  shook  their  heads, 
and  said  they  would  look  up  all  their  law-books,  and 
see  whether  anything  of  the  sort  had  ever  happened 
before,  and  if  so,  how  it  had  been  decided.  That 
is  the  way  judges  used  to  decide  cases  in  that 
country,  though  I  dare  say  it  sounds  to  you  a  very 
funny  way.  It  looked  as  if  they  had  not  much 
sense  in  their  own  heads,  and  perhaps  that  was 
true.  The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  not  a  judge 
would  give  an  opinion;  so  the  King  sent  mes- 
sengers all  over  the  countryside,  to  see  if  they 
could  find  somebody  somewhere  who  knew  some- 
thing. 

One  of  these  messengers  found  a  party  of  five 
shepherds,  who  were  sitting  upon  a  hill  and  trying 
to  decide  a  quarrel  of  their  own.  They  gave  their 
opinions  so  freely,  and  in  language  so  very  strong, 
that  the  King's  messenger  said  to  himself,  "Here 
are  the  men  for  us.  Here  are  five  men,  each  with 
an  opinion  of  his  own,  and  all  different."  Post- 
haste he  scurried  back  to  the  King,  and  told  him 

218 


THE  WISE  OLD  SHEPHERD 

that  he  had  found  at  last  some  one  ready  to  judge 
the  knotty  point. 

So  the  King  and  the  Queen,  and  the  Prince  and 
Princess,  and  all  the  courtiers,  got  on  horseback, 
and  away  they  galloped  to  the  hill  whereupon  the 
five  shepherds  were  sitting,  and  the  Snake  too  went 
with  them,  coiled  round  the  neck  of  the  Prince. 

When  they  got  to  the  shepherds'  hill,  the  shep- 
herds were  dreadfully  frightened.  At  first  they 
thought  that  the  strangers  were  a  gang  of  robbers, 
and  when  they  saw  it  was  the  King  their  next 
thought  was  that  one  of  their  misdeeds  had  been 
found  out;  and  each  of  them  began  thinking  what 
was  the  last  thing  he  had  done,  and  wondering,  was 
it  that? 

But  the  King  and  the  courtiers  got  ofY  their 
horses,  and  said  good  day,  in  the  most  civil  way. 
So  the  shepherds  felt  their  minds  set  at  ease  again. 
Then  the  King  said: 

"Worthy  shepherds,  we  have  a  question  to  put  to 
you,  which  not  all  the  judges  in  all  the  courts  of 
my  city  have  been  able  to  solve.  Here  is  my  son, 
and  here,  as  you  see,  is  a  snake  coiled  round  his 
neck.  Now,  the  husband  of  this  Snake  came  creep- 
ing into  my  palace  hall,  and  my  son  the  Prince 
killed  him;  so  this  Snake,  who  is  the  wife  of  the 
other,  says  that,  as  my  son  has  made  her  a  widow, 
so  she  has  a  right  to  widow  my  son's  wife.  What 
do  you  think  about  it  ?" 

219 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  first  shepherd  said :  "I  think  she  is  quite 
right,  my  Lord  the  King.  H  anyone  made  my  wife 
a  widow,  I  would  pretty  soon  do  the  same  to 
him." 

This  was  brave  language,  and  the  other  shep- 
herds shook  their  heads  and  looked  fierce.  But  the 
King  was  puzzled,  and  could  not  quite  understand 
it.  You  see,  in  the  first  place,  if  the  man's  wife 
were  a  widow,  the  man  would  be  dead ;  and  then  it 
is  hard  to  see  that  he  could  do  anything.  So,  to 
make  sure,  the  King  asked  the  second  shepherd 
whether  that  was  his  opinion  too. 

"Yes,"  said  the  second  shepherd ;  "now  the  Prince 
has  killed  the  Snake,  the  Snake  has  a  right  to  kill 
the  Prince  if  he  can."  But  that  was  not  of  much 
use  either,  as  the  Snake  was  as  dead  as  a  door- 
nail.   So  the  King  passed  on  to  the  third. 

"I  agree  with  my  mates,"  said  the  third  shepherd. 
"Because,  you  see,  a  Prince  is  a  Prince,  but  then 
a  Snake  is  a  Snake."  That  was  quite  true,  they 
all  admitted,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  help  the  matter 
much.  Then  the  King  asked  the  fourth  shepherd  to 
say  what  he  thought. 

The  fourth  shepherd  said :  "An  eye  for  an  eye, 
and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth ;  so  I  think  a  widow  should 
be  a  widow,  if  so  be  she  don't  marry  again." 

By  this  time  the  poor  King  was  so  puzzled  that 
he  hardly  knew  whether  he  stood  on  his  head  or 
his  heels.     But  there  was  still  the  fifth  shepherd 

220 


THE  WISE  OLD  SHEPHERD 

left;  the  oldest  and  wisest  of  them  all;  and  the  fifth 
shepherd  said : 

"King,  I  should  like  to  ask  two  questions." 

"Ask  twenty,  if  you  like,"  said  the  King.  He 
did  not  promise  to  answer  them,  so  he  could  afford 
to  be  generous. 

"First.  I  ask  the  Princess  how  many  sons  she 
has." 

"Four,"  said  the  Princess. 

"And  how  many  sons  has  Mistress  Snake  here?" 

"Seven,"  said  the  Snake. 

"Then,"  said  the  old  shepherd,  "it  will  be  quite 
fair  for  Mistress  Snake  to  kill  his  Highness  the 
Prince  when  her  Highness  the  Princess  has  had 
three  sons  more." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  the  Snake. 
"Good-bye,  King,  and  all  you  good  people.  Send  a 
message  when  the  Princess  has  had  three  more  sons, 
and  you  may  count  upon  me — I  will  not  fail  you." 

So  saying,  she  uncoiled  from  the  Prince's  neck 
and  slid  away  among  the  grass. 

The  King  and  the  Prince  and  everybody  shook 
hands  with  the  wise  old  shepherd,  and  went  home 
again.  And  the  Princess  never  had  any  more  sons 
at  all.  She  and  the  Prince  lived  happily  for  many 
years;  and  if  they  are  not  dead  they  are  living  still. 
From  "The  Talking  Thrush." 


THE   FOLLY   OF   PANIC 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Buddha  (to  be)  was 
born  again  as  a  Lion.  Just  as  he  had  helped  his 
fellow-men,  he  now  began  to  help  his  fellow-ani- 
mals, and  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  done.  For 
instance,  there  was  a  little  nervous  Hare  who  was 
always  afraid  that  something  dreadful  was  going 
to  happen  to  her.  She  was  always  saying:  "Sup- 
pose the  Earth  were  to  fall  in,  what  would  happen 
to  me?"  And  she  said  this  so  often  that  at  last 
she  thought  it  really  was  about  to  happen.  One 
day,  when  she  had  been  saying  over  and  over  again, 
"Suppose  the  Earth  were  to  fall  in,  what  would 
happen  to  me?"  she  heard  a  slight  noise:  it  really 
was  only  a  heavy  fruit  which  had  fallen  upon  a 
rustling  leaf,  but  the  little  Hare  was  so  nervous  she 
was  ready  to  believe  anything,  and  she  said  in  a 
frightened  tone:  "The  Earth  is  falling  in."  She 
ran  away  as  fast  as  she  could  go,  and  presently  she 
met  an  old  brother  Hare,  who  said:  "Where  are 
you  running  to,  Mistress  Hare?" 

And  the  little  Hare  said :  "I  have  no  time  to  stop 
and  tell  you  anything.  The  Earth  is  falling  in,  and 
I  am  running  away." 

222 


THE  FOLLY  OF  PANIC 

"The  Earth  is  falHng  in,  is  it?"  said  the  old 
brother  Hare,  in  a  tone  of  much  astonishment;  and 
he  repeated  this  to  his  brother  hare,  and  he  to  his 
brother  hare,  and  he  to  his  brother  hare,  until  at  last 
there  were  a  hundred  thousand  brother  hares,  all 
shouting:  "The  Earth  is  falling  in."  Now  pres- 
ently the  bigger  animals  began  to  take  the  cry  up. 
First  the  deer,  and  then  the  sheep,  and  then  the 
wild  boar,  and  then  the  buffalo,  and  then  the  camel, 
and  then  the  tiger,  and  then  the  elephant. 

Now  the  wise  Lion  heard  all  this  noise  and  won- 
dered at  it.  "There  are  no  signs,"  he  said,  "of  the 
Earth  falling  in.  They  must  have  heard  some- 
thing." And  then  he  stopped  them  all  short  and 
said:     "What  is  this  you  are  saying?" 

And  the  Elephant  said:  "I  remarked  that  the 
Earth  was  falling  in." 

"How  do  you  know  this?"  asked  the  Lion. 

"Why,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  was  the 
Tiger  that  remarked  it  to  me." 

And  the  Tiger  said :  "I  had  it  from  the  Camel," 
and  the  Camel  said :  "I  had  it  from  the  Buffalo." 
And  the  buffalo  from  the  wild  boar,  and  the  wild 
boar  from  the  sheep,  and  the  sheep  from  the  deer, 
and  the  deer  from  the  hares,  and  the  Hares  said : 
"Oh !  we  heard  it  from  that  little  Hare." 

And  the  Lion  said :  "Little  Hare,  what  made  you 
say  that  the  Earth  was  falling  in?" 

And  the  little  Hare  said :    "I  saw  it." 
22;^ 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

"You  saw  it  ?"  said  the  Lion.    "Where  ?'* 

"Yonder,  by  that  tree." 

"Well,"  said  the  Lion,  "come  with  me  and  I  will 
show  you  how ^" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  Hare,  "I  would  not  go  near 
that  tree  for  anything,  I'm  so  nervous." 

"But,"  said  the  Lion,  "I  am  going  to  take  you  on 
my  back."  And  he  took  her  on  his  back,  and  begged 
the  animals  to  stay  where  they  were  until  they  re- 
turned. Then  he  showed  the  little  Hare  how  the 
fruit  had  fallen  upon  the  leaf,  making  the  noise 
that  had  frightened  her,  and  she  said :  "Yes,  I  see 
— the  Earth  is  not  falling  in."  And  the  Lion  said : 
"Shall  we  go  back  and  tell  the  other  animals?" 
And  they  went  back.  The  little  Hare  stood  before 
the  animals  and  said:  "The  Earth  is  not  falling 
in."  And  all  the  animals  began  to  repeat  this  to 
one  another,  and  they  dispersed  gradually,  and  you 
heard  the  words  more  and  more  softly: 

"The  Earth  is  not  falling  in,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  un- 
til the  sound  died  away  altogether. 

From  "Eastern  Stories  and  Legends." 

Note. — This  story  I  have  told  in  my  own  words,  using  the 
language  I  have  found  most  effective  for  very  young  children. 


THE  TRUE  SPIRIT  OF  A  FESTIVAL  DAY 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Buddha  was  born  a 
Hare  and  Hved  in  a  wood;  on  one  side  was  the 
foot  of  a  mountain,  on  another  a  river,  on  the  third 
side  a  border  village. 

And  with  him  lived  three  friends:  a  Monkey,  a 
Jackal  and  an  Otter;  each  of  these  creatures  got 
food  on  his  own  hunting  ground.  In  the  evening 
they  met  together,  and  the  Hare  taught  his  com- 
panions many  wise  things :  that  the  moral  law  should 
be  observed,  that  alms  should  be  given  to  the  poor, 
and  that  holy  days  should  be  kept. 

One  day  the  Buddha  said:  "To-morrow  is  a 
fast  day.  Feed  any  beggars  that  come  to  you  by 
giving  food  from  your  own  table."  They  all  con- 
sented. 

The  next  day  the  Otter  went  down  to  the  bank 
of  the  Ganges  to  seek  his  prey.  Now  a  fisherman 
had  landed  seven  red  fish  and  had  buried  them  in 
the  sand  on  the  river's  bank  while  he  went  down 
the  stream  catching  more  fish.  The  Otter  scented 
the  buried  fish,  dug  up  the  sand  till  he  came  upon 
them,  and  he  called  aloud:  "Does  any  one  own 
these  fish?"     And,  not  seeing  the  owner,  he  laid 

225 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

the  fish  in  the  jungle  where  he  dwelt,  intending 
to  eat  them  at  a  fitting  time.  Then  he  lay  down, 
thinking  how  virtuous  he  was. 

The  Jackal  also  went  off  in  search  of  food,  and 
found  in  the  hut  of  a  field  watcher  a  lizard,  two 
spits,  and  a  pot  of  milk-curd. 

And,  after  thrice  crying  aloud,  "To  whom  do 
these  belong?"  and  not  finding  an  owner,  he  put  on 
his  neck  the  rope  for  lifting  the  pot,  and  grasping 
the  spits  and  lizard  with  his  teeth,  he  laid  them  in 
his  own  lair,  thinking,  "In  due  season  I  will  de- 
vour them,"  and  then  he  lay  down,  thinking  how 
virtuous  he  had  been. 

The  Monkey  entered  the  clump  of  trees,  and 
gathering  a  bunch  of  mangoes,  laid  them  up  in  his 
part  of  the  jungle,  meaning  to  eat  them  in  due  sea- 
son. He  then  lay  down  and  thought  how  virtu- 
ous he  had  been. 

But  the  Hare  (who  was  the  Buddha-to-be)  in  due 
time  came  out,  thinking  to  lie  (in  contemplation)  on 
the  Kuca  grass.  "It  is  impossible  for  me  to  offer 
grass  to  any  beggars  who  may  chance  to  come  by, 
and  I  have  no  oil  or  rice  or  fish.  If  any  beggar 
come  to  me,  I  will  give  him  (of)  my  own  flesh  to 
eat." 

Now  when  Sakka,  the  King  of  the  Gods,  heard 
this  thing,  he  determined  to  put  the  Royal  Hare  to 
the  test.  So  he  came  in  disguise  of  a  Brahmin  to 
the  Otter  and  said :  "Wise  Sir,  if  I  could  get  some- 

226 


THE  TRUE  SPIRIT  OF  A  FESTIVAL  DAY 

thing  to  eat,  I  would  perform  all  my  priestly 
duties." 

The  Otter  said :  "I  will  give  you  food.  Seven 
red  fish  have  I  safely  brought  to  land  from  the 
sacred  river  of  the  Ganges.  Eat  thy  fill,  O  Brahmin, 
and  stay  in  this  wood." 

And  the  Brahmin  said :  "Let  it  be  until  to-mor- 
row, and  I  will  see  to  it  then." 

Then  he  went  to  the  Jackal,  who  confessed  that 
he  had  stolen  the  food,  but  he  begged  the  Brahmin 
to  accept  it  and  remain  in  the  wood ;  but  the  Brah- 
min said:  "Let  it  be  until  the  morrow,  and  then 
I  will  see  to  it." 

And  he  came  to  the  Monkey,  who  offered  him  the 
mangoes,  and  the  Brahmin  answered  in  the  same 
way. 

Then  the  Brahmin  went  to  the  wise  Hare,  and 
the  Hare  said :  "Behold,  I  will  give  you  of  my  flesh 
to  eat.  But  you  must  not  take  life  on  this  holy 
day.  When  you  have  piled  up  the  logs  I  will  sacri- 
fice myself  by  falling  into  the  midst  of  the  flames, 
and  when  my  body  is  roasted  you  shall  eat  my  flesh 
and  perform  all  your  priestly  duties." 

Now  when  Sakka  heard  these  words  he  caused  a 
heap  of  burning  coals  to  appear,  and  the  Wisdom 
Being,  rising  from  the  grass,  came  to  the  place,  but 
before  casting  himself  into  the  flames  he  shook  him- 
self, lest  perchance  there  should  be  any  insects  in 
his  coat  who  might  suffer  death.     Then,  offering 

22y 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

his  body  as  a  free  gift,  he  sprang  up,  and  like  a 
royal  swan,  lighting  on  a  bed  of  lotus  in  an  ecstasy 
of  joy,  he  fell  on  the  heap  of  live  coals.  But  the 
flame  failed  even  to  heat  the  pores  or  the  hair  on 
the  body  of  the  Wisdom  Being,  and  it  was  as  if  he 
had  entered  a  region  of  frost.  Then  he  addressed 
the  Brahmin  in  these  words:  "Brahmin,  the  fire 
that  you  have  kindled  is  icy  cold ;  it  fails  to  heat  the 
pores  of  the  hair  on  my  body.  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this?'* 

"O  most  wise  Hare !  I  am  Sakka,  and  have  come 
to  put  your  virtue  to  the  test." 

And  the  Buddha  in  a  sweet  voice  said :  "No  god 
or  man  could  find  in  me  an  unwillingness  to  die." 

Then  Sakka  said :  "O  wise  Hare,  be  thy  virtue 
known  to  all  the  ages  to  come." 

And  seizing  the  mountain  he  squeezed  out  the 
juice  and  daubed  on  the  moon  the  signs  of  the 
young  hare. 

Then  he  placed  him  back  on  the  grass  that  he 
might  continue  his  Sabbath  meditation,  and  returned 
to  Heaven. 

And  the  four  creatures  lived  together  and  kept 
the  moral  law. 

From  "Eastern  Stories  and  Legends." 


FILIAL   PIETY 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Buddha  was  re- 
born in  the  shape  of  a  parrot,  and  he  greatly  ex- 
celled all  other  parrots  in  his  strength  and  beauty. 
And  when  he  was  full  grown  his  father,  who  had 
long  been  the  leader  of  the  flock  in  their  flights 
to  other  climes,  said  to  him :  "My  son,  behold  my 
strength  is  spent !  Do  thou  lead  the  flock,  for  I  am 
no  longer  able."  And  the  Buddha  said :  "Behold, 
thou  shalt  rest.  I  will  lead  the  birds."  And  the 
parrots  rejoiced  in  the  strength  of  their  new  leader, 
and  willingly  did  they  follow  him.  Now  from  that 
day  on,  the  Buddha  undertook  to  feed  his  parents, 
and  would  not  consent  that  they  should  do  any  more 
work.  Each  day  he  led  his  flock  to  the  Himalaya 
Hills,  and  when  he  had  eaten  his  fill  of  the  clumps 
of  rice  that  grew  there,  he  filled  his  beak  with  food 
for  the  dear  parents  who  were  waiting  his  return. 

Now  there  was  a  man  appointed  to  watch  the 
rice-fields,  and  he  did  his  best  to  drive  the  parrots 
away,  but  there  seemed  to  be  some  secret  power  in 
the  leader  of  this  flock  which  the  keeper  could  not 
overcome. 

229 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

He  noticed  that  the  parrots  ate  their  fill  and  then 
flew  away,  but  that  the  Parrot-King  not  only  sat- 
isfied his  hunger,  but  carried  away  rice  in  his  beak. 

Now  he  feared  there  would  be  no  rice  left,  and 
he  went  to  his  master,  the  Brahmin,  to  tell  him 
what  had  happened ;  and  even  as  the  master  listened 
there  came  to  him  the  thought  that  the  Parrot-King 
was  something  higher  than  he  seemed,  and  he  loved 
him  even  before  he  saw  him.  But  he  said  nothing 
of  this,  and  only  warned  the  Keeper  that  he  should 
set  a  snare  and  catch  the  dangerous  bird.  So  the 
man  did  as  he  was  bidden :  he  made  a  small  cage  and 
set  the  snare,  and  sat  down  in  his  hut  waiting  for 
the  birds  to  come.  And  soon  he  saw  the  Parrot- 
King  amidst  his  flock,  who,  because  he  had  no 
greed,  sought  no  richer  spot,  but  flew  down  to  the 
same  place  in  which  he  had  fed  the  day  before. 

Now,  no  sooner  had  he  touched  the  ground  than 
he  felt  his  feet  caught  in  the  noose.  Then  fear 
crept  into  his  bird  heart,  but  a  stronger  feeling  was 
there  to  crush  it  down,  for  he  thought:  "H  I  cry 
out  the  Cry  of  the  Captured,  my  Kinsfolk  will  be 
terrified,  and  they  will  fly  away  foodless.  But  if  I 
lie  still,  then  their  hunger  will  be  satisfied,  and  may 
they  safely  come  to  my  aid."  Thus,  was  the  par- 
rot both  brave  and  prudent. 

But  alas!  he  did  not  know  that  his  Kinsfolk  had 
nought  of  his  brave  spirit.  When  they  had  eaten 
their  fill,  though  they  heard  the  thrice-uttered  cry 

230 


FILIAL  PIETY 

of  the  captured,  they  flew  away,  nor  heeded  the  sad 
plight  of  their  leader. 

Then  was  the  heart  of  the  Parrot-King  sore 
within  him,  and  he  said :  "All  these  my  kith  and 
kin,  and  not  one  to  look  back  on  me.  Alas!  what 
sin  have  I  done?" 

The  watchman  now  heard  the  cry  of  the  Parrot- 
King,  and  the  sound  of  the  other  parrots  flying 
through  the  air.  "What  is  that?"  he  cried,  and 
leaving  his  hut  he  came  to  the  place  where  he  had 
laid  the  snare.  There  he  found  the  captive  parrot; 
he  tied  his  feet  together  and  brought  him  to  the 
Brahmin,  his  master.  Now,  when  the  Brahmin  saw 
the  Parrot-King,  he  felt  his  strong  power,  and  his 
heart  was  full  of  love  to  him,  but  he  hid  his  feel- 
ings, and  said  in  a  voice  of  anger :  "Is  thy  greed 
greater  than  that  of  all  other  birds  ?  They  eat  their 
fill,  but  thou  takest  away  each  day  more  food  than 
thou  canst  eat.  Doest  thou  this  out  of  hatred  for 
me,  or  dost  thou  store  up  the  food  in  some  gran- 
ary for  selfish  greed?" 

And  the  Great  Being  made  answer  in  a  sweet  hu- 
man voice :  "I  hate  thee  not,  O  Brahmin.  Nor  do 
I  store  the  rice  in  a  granary  for  selfish  greed.  But 
this  thing  I  do.  Each  day  I  pay  a  debt  which  is 
due — each  day  I  grant  a  loan,  and  each  day  I  store 
up  a  treasure." 

Now  the  Brahmin  could  not  understand  the  words 
of  the  Buddha  (because  true  wisdom  had  not  en- 

231 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

tered  his  heart)  and  he  said :  *T  pray  thee,  O  Won- 
drous Bird,  to  make  these  words  clear  unto  me." 

And  then  the  Parrot-King  made  answer:  "I 
carry  food  to  my  ancient  parents  who  can  no  longer 
seek  that  food  for  themselves :  thus  I  pay  my  daily 
debt.  I  carry  food  to  my  callow  chicks  whose 
wings  are  yet  ungrown.  When  I  am  old  they  will 
care  for  me — this  my  loan  to  them.  And  for  other 
birds,  weak  and  helpless  of  wing,  who  need  the  aid 
of  the  strong,  for  them  I  lay  up  a  store;  to  these  I 
give  in  charity." 

Then  was  the  Brahmin  much  moved,  and  showed 
the  love  that  was  in  his  heart.  "Eat  thy  fill,  O 
Righteous  Bird,  and  let  thy  Kinsfolk  eat,  too,  for 
thy  sake."  And  he  wished  to  bestow  a  thousand 
acres  of  land  upon  him,  but  the  Great  Being  would 
only  take  a  tiny  portion  round  which  were  set 
boundary  stores. 

And  the  parrot  returned  with  a  head  of  rice,  and 
said:  "Arise,  dear  parents,  that  I  may  take  you 
to  a  place  of  plenty."  And  he  told  them  the  story 
of  his  deliverance. 

From  "Eastern  Stories  and  Legends." 


THREE    STORIES 

FROM  THE  DANISH   OF 

HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 


THREE    STORIES    FROM    HANS    CHRISTIAN 
ANDERSEN ' 

THE   SWINEHERD 

There  was  once  a  poor  Prince.  He  owned  a 
Kingdom — a  very  small  one,  but  it  was  big  enough 
to  allow  him  to  marry,  and  he  was  determined  to 
marry.  Now,  it  was  really  very  bold  on  his  part 
to  say  to  a  King's  daughter:  "Will  you  marry 
me?"  But  he  dared  to  do  so,  for  his  name  was 
known  far  and  wide,  and  there  were  hundreds  of 
princesses  who  would  willingly  have  said :  "Yes, 
thank  you."  But,  would  shef  We  shall  hear  what 
happened. 

On  the  grave  of  the  Prince's  father,  there  grew 
a  rose-tree — such  a  wonderful  rose-tree!  It 
bloomed  only  once  in  five  years,  and  then  it  bore 
only  one  rose— but  what  a  rose!  Its  perfume  was 
so  sweet  that  whoever  smelt  it  forgot  all  his  cares 
and  sorrows.     The  Prince  had  also  a  nightingale 

*  The  three  stories  from  Hans  Christian  Andersen  have  for 
so  long  formed  part  of  my  repertoire  that  I  have  been  re- 
quested to  include  them.  I  am  offering  a  free  translation  of 
my  own  from  the  Danish  version. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

which  could  sing  as  if  all  the  delicious  melodies  in 
the  world  were  contained  in  its  little  throat.  The 
rose  and  the  nightingale  were  both  to  be  given  to 
the  Princess,  and  were  therefore  placed  in  two  great 
silver  caskets  and  sent  to  her.  The  Emperor  had 
them  carried  before  him  into  the  great  hall  where 
the  Princess  was  playing  at  "visiting"  with  her 
ladies-in-waiting — they  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
When  she  saw  the  caskets  with  the  presents  in  them, 
she  clapped  her  hands  with  joy. 

"If  it  were  only  a  little  pussy-cat,"  she  cried. 
But  out  came  a  beautiful  rose. 

"How  elegantly  it  is  made,"  said  all  the  ladies  of 
the  court. 

"It  is  more  than  elegant,"  said  the  Emperor.  "It 
is  neat/' 

"Fie,  papa,"  she  said,  "it  is  not  made  at  all ;  it  is 
a  natural  rose." 

"Let  us  see  what  the  other  casket  contains  before 
we  lose  our  temper,"  said  the  Emperor,  and  then 
out  came  the  little  nightingale  and  sang  so  sweetly 
that  at  first  nobody  could  think  of  anything  to  say 
against  it. 

"Superhe,  superhe"  cried  the  ladies  of  the  court, 
for  they  all  chattered  French,  one  worse  than  the 
other. 

"How  the  bird  reminds  me  of  the  late  Empress' 
musical-box!"  said  an  old  Lord-in- Waiting.  "Ah, 
me!  the  same  tone,  the  same  execution." 

236 


THE  SWINEHERD 

"The  very  same/'  said  the  Emperor,  and  he 
cried  like  a  little  child. 

"I  hope  it  is  not  a  real  bird,"  said  the  Princess. 

"Oh,  yes!  it  is  a  real  bird,"  said  those  who  had 
brought  it. 

"Then  let  the  bird  fly  away,"  she  said,  and  she 
would  on  no  account  allow  the  Prince  to  come  in. 

But  he  was  not  to  be  disheartened ;  he  smeared  his 
face  with  black  and  brown,  drew  his  cap  over  his 
forehead,  and  knocked  at  the  Palace  door.  The 
Emperor  opened  it. 

"Good  day.  Emperor,"  he  said.  "Could  I  get 
work  at  the  Palace?" 

"Well,  there  are  so  many  wanting  places,"  said 
the  Emperor;  "but  let  me  see! — I  need  a  Swine- 
herd.    I  have  a  good  many  pigs  to  keep." 

So  the  Prince  was  made  Imperial  Swineherd.  He 
had  a  wretched  little  room  near  the  pig-sty  and 
here  he  was  obliged  to  stay.  But  the  whole  day  he 
sat  and  worked,  and  by  the  evening  he  had  made 
a  neat  little  pipkin,  and  round  it  was  a  set  of  bells, 
and  as  soon  as  the  pot  began  to  boil,  the  bells  fell 
to  jingling  most  sweetly  and  played  the  old  melody: 

"Ach  du  lieber  Augustin, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg !"  ^ 


*Alas!  dear  Augustin, 
All  is  lost,  lost,  lost! 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

But  the  most  wonderful  thing  was  that  when  you 
held  your  finger  in  the  steam  of  the  pipkin,  you 
could  immediately  smell  what  dinner  was  cooking 
on  every  hearth  in  the  town.  That  was  something 
very  different  from  a  rose. 

The  Princess  was  walking  out  with  her  ladies-in- 
waiting,  and  when  she  heard  the  melody,  she 
stopped  short,  and  looked  pleased,  for  she  could 
play  **Ach  du  lieber  Augustin"  herself;  it  was  the 
only  tune  she  knew,  and  that  she  played  with  one 
finger.  "Why,  that  is  the  tune  I  play,"  she  said. 
"What  a  cultivated  Swineherd  he  must  be.  Go 
down  and  ask  him  how  much  his  instrument  costs." 

So  one  of  the  ladies-in-waiting  was  obliged  to  go 
down,  but  she  put  on  pattens  first. 

"How  much  do  you  want  for  your  pipkin?"  asked 
the  Lady-in-waiting. 

"I  will  have  ten  kisses  from  the  Princess/'  said 
the  Swineherd. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  the  Lady-in-waiting. 

"I  will  not  take  less,"  said  the  Swineherd. 

"Well,  what  did  he  say?"  asked  the  Princess. 

"I  really  cannot  tell  you,"  said  the  Lady-in-wait- 
ing.    "It  is  too  dreadful." 

"Then  you  must  whisper  it,"  said  the  Princess. 

So  she  whispered  it. 

"He  is  very  rude,"  said  the  Princess,  and  she 
walked  away.  But  she  had  gone  only  a  few  steps 
when  the  bells  sounded  so  sweetly : 

238 


THE  SWINEHERD 

"Ach  du  lieber  Augustin, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg!" 

"Listen,"  said  the  Princess,  "ask  him  whether 
he  will  have  his  kisses  from  my  Ladies-in-waiting." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  the  Swineherd.  "I  will 
have  ten  kisses  from  the  Princess,  or,  I  will  keep 
my  pipkin." 

"How  tiresome!"  said  the  Princess;  "but  you 
must  stand  round  me,  so  that  nobody  shall  see." 

So  the  ladies-in-waiting  stood  round  her,  and  they 
spread  out  their  skirts.  The  Swineherd  got  the 
kisses,  and  she  got  the  pipkin. 

How  delighted  she  was.  All  the  evening,  and 
the  whole  of  the  next  day,  that  pot  was  made  to 
boil.  And  you  might  have  known  what  everybody 
was  cooking  on  every  hearth  in  the  town,  from  the 
Chamberlain's  to  the  shoemaker's.  The  court  ladies 
danced  and  clapped  their  hands. 

"We  know  who  is  to  have  fruit-soup  and  pan- 
cakes, and  we  know  who  is  going  to  have  porridge, 
and  cutlets.     How  very  interesting  it  is!" 

"Most  interesting,  indeed,"  said  the  first  Lady-of- 
Honor. 

"Yes,  but  hold  your  tongues,  for  I  am  the  Em- 
peror's daughter." 

"Of  course  we  will,"  they  cried  in  one  breath. 

The  Swineherd,  or  the  Prince,  nobody  knew  that 
he  was  not  a  real  Swineherd,  did  not  let  the  day 
pass  without  doing  something,  and  he  made  a  rattle 

239 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

which  could  play  all  the  waltzes,  and  the  polkas 
and  the  hop-dances  which  had  been  known  since 
the  creation  of  the  world. 

"But  this  is  siiperhe!"  said  the  Princess,  who  was 
just  passing:  "I  have  never  heard  more  beautiful 
composition.  Go  and  ask  him  what  the  instru- 
ment costs.     But  I  will  give  no  more  kisses." 

"He  insists  on  a  hundred  kisses  from  the  Prin- 
cess," said  the  ladies-in-waiting  who  had  been  down 
to  ask. 

"I  think  he  must  be  quite  mad,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, and  she  walked  away.  But  when  she  had 
taken  a  few  steps,  she  stopped  short,  and  said: 
"One  must  encourage  the  fine  arts,  and  I  am  the 
Emperor's  daughter.  Tell  him  he  may  have  ten 
kisses,  as  before,  and  the  rest  he  can  take  from  my 
ladies-in-waiting." 

"Yes,  but  we  object  to  that,"  said  the  ladies-in- 
waiting. 

"That  is  nonsense,"  said  the  Princess.  "If  I  can 
kiss  him,  surely  you  can  do  the  same.  Go  down  at 
once.    Don't  I  give  you  board  and  wages  ?" 

So  the  ladies-in-waiting  were  obliged  to  go  down 
to  the  Swineherd  again. 

"A  hundred  kisses  from  the  Princess,  or  each 
keeps  his  own." 

"Stand  round  me,"  she  said.  And  all  the  ladies- 
in-waiting  stood  round  her,  and  the  Swineherd  be- 
gan to  kiss  her. 

240 


THE  SWINEHERD 

"What  can  all  that  crowd  be  down  by  the  pig- 
sty?" said  the  Emperor,  stepping  out  onto  the  bal- 
cony. He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  put  on  his  spectacles. 
"It  is  the  court  ladies  up  to  some  of  their  tricks.  I 
must  go  down  and  look  after  them."  He  pulled  up 
his  slippers,  for  they  were  shoes  which  he  had 
trodden  down  at  the  heel. 

Gracious  goodness,  how  he  hurried !  As  soon  as 
he  came  into  the  garden,  he  walked  very  softly,  and 
the  ladies-in-waiting  had  so  much  to  do  counting 
the  kisses,  so  that  everything  could  be  done  fairly, 
and  that  the  Swineherd  should  get  neither  too 
many  nor  too  few,  that  they  never  noticed  the  Em- 
peror at  all.    He  stood  on  tip-toe. 

"What  is  this  all  about?"  he  said,  when  he  saw 
the  kissing  that  was  going  on,  and  he  hit  them  on 
the  head  with  his  slipper,  just  as  the  Swineherd  was 
getting  the  eighty-sixth  kiss.  "Heraus!"  said  the 
Emperor,  for  he  was  angry,  and  both  the  Princess 
and  the  Swineherd  were  turned  out  of  his  King- 
dom. 

The  Princess  wept,  the  Swineherd  scolded,  and 
the  rain  streamed  down. 

"Oh !  wretched  creature  that  I  am,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, "rf  I  had  only  taken  the  handsome  Prince! 
Oh,  how  unhappy  I  am !" 

Then  the  Swineherd  went  behind  a  tree,  washed 
the  black  and  brown  off  his  face,  threw  off  his 
ragged  clothes,  and  stood  forth  in  his  royal  apparel, 

241 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

looking  so  handsome  that  she  was  obHged  to  curtsey. 

"I  have  learned  to  despise  you,"  he  said.  "You 
would  not  have  an  honorable  Prince.  You  could 
not  appreciate  a  rose  or  a  nightingale,  but  for  a 
musical  toy,  you  kissed  the  Swineherd.  Now  you 
have  your  reward." 

So  he  went  into  his  Kingdom,  shut  the  door  and 
bolted  it,  and  she  had  to  stand  outside  singing: 

"Ach  du  lieber  Augustin, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg"l 


THE   NIGHTINGALE 

In  China,  you  must  know,  the  Emperor  is  a 
Chinaman,  and  all  those  around  him  are  Chinamen, 
too.  It  is  many  years  since  all  this  happened,  and 
for  that  very  reason  it  is  worth  hearing,  before  it 
is  forgotten. 

The  Emperor's  palace  was  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  world;  built  all  of  fine  porcelain  and  very  costly, 
but  so  fragile  that  it  was  very  difficult  to  touch, 
and  you  had  to  be  very  careful  in  doing  so.  The 
most  wonderful  flowers  were  to  be  seen  in  the 
garden,  and  to  the  most  beautiful,  silver  bells,  tin- 
kling bells  were  tied,  for  fear  people  should  pass 
by  without  noticing  them.  How  well  everything 
had  been  thought  out  in  the  Emperor's  garden! 
This  was  so  big,  that  the  gardener  himself  did  not 
know  where  it  ended.  If  you  walked  on  and  on 
you  came  to  the  most  beautiful  forest,  with  tall 
trees  and  big  lakes.  The  wood  stretched  right 
down  to  the  sea  which  was  blue  and  deep;  great 
ships  could  pass  underneath  the  branches,  and  here 
a  nightingale  had  made  its  home,  and  its  singing 

243 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

was  so  entrancing  that  the  poor  fisherman,  though 
he  had  so  many  other  things  to  do,  would  He  still 
and  listen  when  he  was  out  at  night  drawing  in 
his  nets. 

"How  beautiful  it  is!"  he  said;  but  then  he  was 
forced  to  think  about  his  own  affairs,  and  the  Night- 
ingale was  forgotten.  The  next  day,  when  it  sang 
again,  the  fisherman  said  the  same  thing:  "How 
beautiful  it  is!" 

Travellers  from  all  the  countries  of  the  world 
came  to  the  Emperor's  town,  and  expressed  their 
admiration  of  the  palace  and  the  garden,  but  when 
they  heard  the  Nightingale,  they  all  said :  "This  is 
the  best  of  all!" 

Now,  when  these  travellers  came  home,  they  told 
of  what  they  had  seen.  And  scholars  wrote  many 
books  about  the  town,  the  palace  and  the  garden, 
but  nobody  left  out  the  Nightingale ;  it  was  always 
spoken  of  as  the  most  wonderful  of  all  they  had 
seen.  And  those  who  had  the  gift  of  the  Poet, 
wrote  the  most  delightful  poems  all  about  the  Night- 
ingale in  the  wood  near  the  deep  lake. 

The  books  went  round  the  world,  and  in  the 
course  of  time  some  of  them  reached  the  Emperor. 
He  sat  in  his  golden  chair,  and  read  and  read,  nod- 
ding his  head  every  minute;  for  it  pleased  him  to 
read  the  beautiful  descriptions  of  the  town,  the  pal- 
ace and  the  garden. 

"But  the  Nightingale  is  the  best  of  all,"  he  read. 
244 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

"What  is  this  ?"  said  the  Emperor.  "The  Night- 
ingale! I  know  nothing  whatever  about  it.  To 
think  of  there  being  such  a  bird  in  my  Kingdom — 
nay  in  my  very  garden — and  I  have  never  heard  it. 
And  to  think  one  should  learn  such  a  thing  for  the 
first  time  from  a  book !" 

Then  he  summoned  his  Lord-in- Waiting,  who 
was  such  a  grand  personage  that  if  anyone  inferior 
in  rank  ventured  to  speak  to  him,  or  ask  him  about 
anything,  he  merely  answered  "P,'*  which  meant 
nothing  whatever. 

"There  is  said  to  be  a  most  wonderful  bird,  called 
the  Nightingale,"  said  the  Emperor;  "they  say  it  is 
the  best  thing  in  my  great  Kingdom.  Why  have  I 
been  told  nothing  about  it?" 

"I  have  never  heard  it  mentioned  before,"  said 
the  Lord-in- Waiting.  "It  has  certainly  never  been 
presented  at  court." 

"It  is  my  good  pleasure  that  it  shall  appear  to- 
night and  sing  before  me !"  said  the  Emperor.  "The 
whole  world  knows  what  is  mine,  and  I  myself  do 
not  know  it." 

"I  have  never  heard  it  mentioned  before,"  said 
the  Lord-in-Waiting.  "I  will  seek  it,  and  I  shall 
find  it." 

But  where  was  it  to  be  found?  The  Lord-in- 
Waiting  ran  up  and  down  all  the  stairs,  through  the 
halls  and  passages,  but  not  one  of  all  those  whom 
he  met  had  ever  heard  a  word  about  the  Nightin- 

245 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

gale;  so  the  Lord-in- Waiting  ran  back  to  the  Em- 
peror and  told  him  that  it  must  certainly  be  a  fable 
invented  by  writers  of  books. 

"Your  Majesty  must  not  believe  all  that  is  writ- 
ten in  books.  It  is  pure  invention,  something  which 
is  called  the  Black  Art." 

"But,"  said  the  Emperor,  "the  book  in  which  I 
have  read  this  was  sent  to  me  by  His  Majesty,  the 
Emperor  of  Japan,  and  therefore  this  cannot  be  a 
falsehood.  I  will  hear  the  Nightingale.  It  must 
appear  this  evening !  It  has  my  Imperial  favor,  and 
if  it  fails  to  appear  the  Court  shall  be  trampled  upon 
after  the  Court  has  supped." 

"Tsing-pe !"  said  the  Lord-in- Waiting,  and  again 
he  ran  up  and  down  all  the  stairs,  through  all  the 
halls  and  passages,  and  half  the  Court  ran  with  him, 
for  they  had  no  wish  to  be  trampled  upon.  And 
many  questions  were  asked  about  the  wonderful 
Nightingale,  of  whom  all  had  heard  except  those 
who  lived  at  Court. 

At  last,  they  met  a  poor  little  girl  in  the  kitchen. 
She  said:  "Oh,  yes!  The  Nightingale!  I  know 
it  well.  How  it  can  sing!  Every  evening  I  have 
permission  to  take  the  broken  pieces  from  the  table 
to  my  poor  sick  mother  who  lives  near  the  sea- 
shore, and  on  my  way  back,  when  I  feel  tired,  and 
rest  a  while  in  the  wood,  then  I  hear  the  Nightin- 
gale sing,  and  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears;  it  is 
as  if  my  mother  kissed  me." 

246 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

"Little  kitchen-maid,"  said  the  Lord-in- Waiting, 
*T  will  get  a  permanent  place  for  you  in  the  Court 
Kitchen  and  permission  to  see  the  Emperor  dine,  if 
you  can  lead  us  to  the  Nightingale ;  for  it  has  been 
commanded  to  appear  at  Court  to-night.'* 

So  they  started  off  all  together  where  the  bird 
used  to  sing;  half  the  Court  went,  too.  They  were 
going  along  at  a  good  pace,  when  suddenly  they 
heard  a  cow  lowing. 

"Oh,"  said  a  Court-Page.  "There  it  is!  What 
wonderful  power  for  so  small  a  creature!  I  have 
certainly  heard  it  before." 

"No,  those  are  the  cows  lowing,"  said  the  little 
kitchen-maid.  "We  are  a  long  way  from  the  place 
yet." 

Then  the  frogs  began  to  croak  in  the  marsh. 
"Glorious,"  said  the  Court-Preacher.  "Now,  I  hear 
it — it  is  just  like  little  church-bells." 

"No,  those  are  the  frogs,"  said  the  little  kitchen- 
maid.     "But  now  I  think  we  shall  soon  hear  it." 

And  then  the  Nightingale  began  to  sing. 

"There  it  is,"  said  the  little  girl.  "Listen,  listen 
— there  it  sits!"  And  she  pointed  to  a  little  gray 
bird  in  the  branches. 

"Is  it  possible!"  said  the  Lord-in- Waiting.  "I 
had  never  supposed  it  would  look  like  that.  How 
ver\'  plain  it  looks!  It  has  certainly  lost  its  color 
from  seeing  so  many  grand  folk  here." 

"Little  Nightingale,"  called  out  the  little  kitchen- 
247 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

maid,  "our  gracious  Emperor  wishes  you  to  sing 
for  him." 

"With  the  greatest  pleasure,"  said  the  Nightin- 
gale, and  it  sang,  and  it  was  a  joy  to  hear  it. 

"It  sounds  like  little  glass  bells,"  said  the  Lord- 
in- Waiting;  "and  just  look  at  its  little  throat,  how 
it  moves !  It  is  astonishing  to  think  we  have  never 
heard  it  before!  It  will  have  a  real  succes  at 
Court." 

"Shall  I  sing  for  the  Emperor  again?"  asked 
the  Nightingale,  who  thought  that  the  Emperor 
was  there  in  person. 

"Mine  excellent  little  Nightingale,"  said  the 
Lord-in- Waiting,  "I  have  the  great  pleasure  of  bid- 
ding you  to  a  Court-Festival  this  night,  when  you 
will  enchant  His  Imperial  Majesty  with  your  de- 
lightful warbling." 

"My  voice  sounds  better  among  the  green  trees," 
said  the  Nightingale.  But  it  came  willingly  when  it 
knew  that  the  Emperor  wished  it. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  furbishing  up  at  the 
palace.  The  walls  and  ceiling  which  were  of  por- 
celain, shone  with  the  light  of  a  thousand  golden 
lamps.  The  most  beautiful  flowers  of  the  tinkling 
kind  were  placed  in  the  passages.  There  was  a 
running  to  and  fro  and  a  great  draught,  but  that  is 
just  what  made  the  bells  ring,  and  one  could  not 
hear  oneself  speak.  In  the  middle  of  the  great  hall 
where  the  Emperor  sat,  a  golden  rod  had  been  set 

248 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

up  on  which  the  Nightingale  was  to  perch.  The 
whole  Court  was  present,  and  the  little  kitchen-maid 
was  allowed  to  stand  behind  the  door,  for  she  had 
now  the  actual  title  of  Court  Kitchen-Maid.  All 
were  there  in  their  smartest  clothes,  and  they  all 
looked  toward  the  little  gray  bird  to  which  the  Em- 
peror nodded. 

And  then  the  Nightingale  sang,  so  gloriously  that 
tears  sprang  into  the  Emperor's  eyes  and  rolled 
down  his  cheeks,  and  the  Nightingale  sang  even 
more  sweetly.  The  song  went  straight  to  the  heart, 
and  the  Emperor  was  so  delighted  that  he  declared 
that  the  Nightingale  should  have  his  golden  slipper 
to  hang  round  its  neck.  But  the  Nightingale  de- 
clined.    It  had  already  had  its  reward. 

"I  have  seen  tears  in  the  Emperor's  eyes.  That  is 
my  greatest  reward.  An  Emperor's  tears  have  a  won- 
derful power.  God  knows  I  am  sufficiently  reward- 
ed," and  again  its  sweet,  glorious  voice  was  heard. 

"That  is  the  most  delightful  coquetting  I  have 
ever  known,"  said  the  ladies  sitting  round,  and 
they  took  water  into  their  mouths,  in  order  to 
gurgle  when  anyone  spoke  to  them,  and  they  really 
thought  they  were  like  the  Nightingale.  Even  the 
footmen  and  the  chambermaids  sent  word  that  they 
were  satisfied,  and  that  means  a  great  deal,  for  they 
are  always  the  most  difficult  people  to  please.  Yes, 
indeed,  there  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  Nightingale's 
success.    It  was  to  stay  at  Court,  and  have  its  own 

249 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

cage,  with  liberty  to  go  out  twice  in  the  daytime, 
and  once  at  night.  Twelve  footmen  went  out  with 
it,  and  each  held  a  silk  ribbon  which  was  tied  to 
the  bird's  leg,  and  which  they  held  very  tightly. 
There  was  not  much  pleasure  in  an  outing  of  that 
sort.  The  whole  town  was  talking  about  the  won- 
derful bird,  and  when  two  people  met,  one  said: 

*']SPightin "  and  the  other  said  "gale,"  and  they 

sighed  and  understood  one  another.  Eleven  cheese- 
mongers' children  were  called  after  the  bird,  though 
none  of  them  could  sing  a  note. 

One  day  a  large  parcel  came  for  the  Emperor. 
Outside  was  written  the  word :     "Nightingale." 

"Here  we  have  a  new  book  about  our  wonderful 
bird,"  said  the  Emperor.  But  it  was  not  a  book; 
it  was  a  little  work  of  art  which  lay  in  a  box — an 
artificial  Nightingale,  which  looked  exactly  like  the 
real  one,  but  it  was  studded  all  over  with  diamonds, 
rubies  and  sapphires.  As  soon  as  you  wound  it  up, 
it  could  sing  one  of  the  songs  which  the  real  bird 
sang,  and  its  tail  moved  up  and  down  and  glittered 
with  silver  and  gold.  Round  its  neck  was  a  ribbon 
on  which  was  written:  "The  Emperor  of  Japan's 
Nightingale  is  poor  indeed,  compared  with  the  Em- 
peror of  China's." 

"That  is  delightful,"  they  all  said,  and  on  the 
messenger  who  had  brought  the  artificial  bird,  they 
bestowed  the  title  of  "Imperial  Nightingale-Bringer- 
in-Chief." 

250 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

"Let  them  sing  together,  and  what  a  duet  that 
will  be!" 

And  so  they  had  to  sing,  but  the  thing  would 
not  work,  because  the  real  Nightingale  could  only 
sing  in  its  own  way,  and  the  artificial  Nightingale 
went  by  clockwork. 

"That  is  not  its  fault,"  said  the  band-master. 
"Time  is  its  strong  point  and  it  has  quite  my 
method." 

Then  the  artificial  Nightingale  had  to  sing  alone. 
It  had  just  as  much  success  as  the  real  bird,  and  it 
was  so  much  handsomer  to  look  at ;  it  glittered  like 
bracelets  and  breast-pins.  It  sang  the  same  tune 
three  and  thirty  times,  and  still  it  was  not  tired; 
the  people  would  willingly  listen  to  the  whole  per- 
formance over  again  from  the  start,  but  the  Em- 
peror suggested  that  the  real  Nightingale  should 
sing  for  a  while — where  was  it?  Nobody  had  no- 
ticed it  had  flown  out  of  the  open  window  back  to  its 
green  woods. 

"But  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  said  the 
Emperor.  All  the  courtiers  railed  at  the  Nightin- 
gale and  said  it  was  a  most  ungrateful  creature. 

"We  have  the  better  of  the  two,"  they  said,  and 
the  artificial  Nightingale  had  to  sing  again,  and  this 
was  the  thirty-fourth  time  they  had  heard  the  same 
tune.  But  they  did  not  know  it  properly  even  then, 
because  it  was  so  difficult,  and  the  band-master 
praised  the  wonderful  bird  in  the  highest  terms  and 

251 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

even  asserted  that  it  was  superior  to  the  real  bird, 
not  only  as  regarded  the  outside,  with  the  many 
lovely  diamonds,  but  the  inside  as  well. 

"You  see,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  above  all 
your  Imperial  Majesty,  that  with  the  real  Nightin- 
gale, you  can  never  predict  what  may  happen,  but 
with  the  artificial  bird,  everything  is  settled  be- 
forehand; so  it  remains  and  it  cannot  be  changed. 
One  can  account  for  it.  One  can  rip  it  open,  and 
show  the  human  ingenuity,  explaining  how  the  cylin- 
ders lie,  how  they  work,  and  how  one  thing  is 
the  result  of  another." 

"That  is  just  what  we  think,"  they  all  exclaimed, 
and  the  band-master  received  permission  to  exhibit 
the  bird  to  the  people  on  the  following  Sunday. 
The  Emperor  said  they  would  hear  it  sing.  They 
listened,  and  were  as  much  delighted  as  if  they  had 
been  drunk  with  tea,  which  is  Chinese,  you  know, 
and  they  all  said :  "Oh !"  and  stuck  their  fore- 
fingers in  the  air,  and  nodded  their  heads.  But 
the  poor  fisherman  who  had  heard  the  real  Night- 
ingale, said :  "It  sounds  quite  well,  and  a  little  like 
it,  but  there  is  something  wanting,  I  do  not  know 
what." 

The  real  Nightingale  was  banished  from  the 
Kingdom. 

The  artificial  bird  had  its  place  on  a  silken  cushion 
close  to  the  Emperor's  bed.  All  the  presents  it 
had  received,  the  gold  and  precious  stones,  lay  all 

252 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

round  it,  and  it  had  been  honored  with  the  title 
of  High-Imperial-Bed-Room-Singer — in  the  first 
rank,  on  the  left  side,  for  even  the  Emperor  con- 
sidered that  side  the  grander  on  which  the  heart  is 
placed,  and  even  an  Emperor  has  his  heart  on  the 
left  side. 

The  band-master  wrote  twenty-five  volumes  about 
the  wonderful  artificial  bird.  The  book  was  very 
learned  and  very  long,  filled  with  the  most  difficult 
words  in  the  Chinese  language,  and  everybody  said 
they  had  read  and  understood  it,  for  otherwise  they 
would  have  been  considered  stupid,  and  would  have 
been  trampled  upon. 

And  thus  a  whole  year  passed  away.  The  Em- 
peror, the  Court,  and  all  the  Chinamen  knew  every 
little  gurgle  in  the  artificial  bird's  song,  and  just 
for  this  reason,  they  were  all  the  better  pleased 
with  it.  They  could  sing  it  themselves — which  they 
did. 

The  boys  in  the  street  sang  "Zi-zi-zi,'*  and  "cluck, 
cluck,"  and  even  the  Emperor  sang  it.  Yes,  it  was 
certainly  beautiful! 

But  one  evening,  while  the  bird  was  singing,  and 
the  Emperor  lay  in  bed  listening  to  it,  there  was  a 
whirring  sound  inside  the  bird,  and  something 
whizzed;  all  the  wheels  ran  round,  and  the  music 
stopped. 

The  Emperor  sprang  out  of  bed  and  sent  for  the 
Court   Physician,   but  what  could   he  do?     Then 

253 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

they  sent  for  the  watch-maker,  and  after  much  talk 
and  examination,  he  patched  the  bird  up,  but  he 
said  it  must  be  spared  as  much  as  possible,  because 
the  hammers  were  so  worn  out — and  he  could  not 
put  new  ones  in  so  that  the  music  could  be  counted 
on.  This  was  a  great  grief.  The  bird  could  only 
be  allowed  to  sing  once  a  year,  and  even  that  was 
risky,  but  on  these  occasions,  the  band-master  would 
make  a  little  speech,  full  of  difficult  words,  saying 
the  bird  was  just  as  good  as  ever — and  that  was 
true. 

Five  years  passed  away,  and  a  great  sorrow  had 
come  to  the  country.  The  people  all  really  cared 
for  their  Emperor,  and  now  he  was  ill  and  it  was 
said  he  could  not  live.  A  new  Emperor  had  been 
chosen,  and  the  people  stood  about  the  streets, 
and  questioned  the  Lord-in-Waiting  about  their 
Emperor's  condition. 

"P!"  he  said,  and  shook  his  head. 

The  Emperor  lay  pale  and  cold  on  his  great,  gor- 
geous bed;  the  whole  Court  believed  that  he  was 
dead,  and  they  all  hastened  to  pay  homage  to  the 
new  Emperor.  The  footmen  hurried  off  to  discuss 
matters,  and  the  chambermaids  gave  a  great  coffee- 
party.  Cloth  had  been  laid  down  in  all  the  rooms 
and  passages,  so  that  not  a  footstep  should  be 
heard  and  it  was  all  so  very  quiet.  But  the  Em- 
peror was  not  yet  dead.  He  lay  stiff  and  pale  in 
the  sumptuous  bed,  with  its  long  velvet  curtains 

254 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

and  heavy  gold  tassels;  high  above  was  an  open 
window,  and  the  moon  shone  in  upon  the  Em- 
peror and  the  artificial  bird.  The  poor  Emperor 
could  hardly  breathe;  he  felt  as  if  someone  were 
sitting  on  his  chest;  he  opened  his  eyes  and  saw 
that  it  was  Death  sitting  on  his  chest,  wearing  his 
golden  crown,  holding  in  one  hand  his  golden 
sword,  and  in  the  other  his  splendid  banner.  And 
from  the  folds  of  the  velvet  curtains  strange  faces 
peered  forth;  some  terrible  to  look  on,  others  mild 
and  friendly — these  were  the  Emperor's  good  and 
bad  deeds,  which  gazed  upon  him  now  that  Death 
sat  upon  his  heart. 

"Do  you  remember  this?"  whispered  one  after 
the  other.  "Do  you  remember  that?"  They  told 
him  so  much  that  the  sweat  poured  down  his  face. 

'T  never  knew  that,"  said  the  Emperor.  "Music ! 
music!  Beat  the  great  Chinese  drum!"  he  called 
out,  "so  that  I  may  not  hear  what  they  are  say- 
ing!" 

But  they  kept  on,  and  Death  nodded  his  head, 
like  a  Chinaman,  at  everything  they  said. 

"Music,  music,"  cried  the  Emperor.  "You 
precious  little  golden  bird!  Sing  to  me,  ah!  sing 
to  me !  I  have  given  you  gold  and  costly  treasures. 
I  have  hung  my  golden  slipper  about  your  neck. 
Sing  to  me.     Sing  to  me!" 

But  the  bird  was  silent;  there  was  no  one  to 
wind  him  up,   and   therefore  he   could  not   sing. 

255 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Death  went  on,  staring  at  the  Emperor  with  his 
great  hollow  eyes,  and  it  was  terribly  still. 

Then,  suddenly,  close  to  the  window,  came  the 
sound  of  a  lovely  song.  It  was  the  little  live  Night- 
ingale perched  on  a  branch  outside.  It  had  heard 
of  its  Emperor's  need,  and  had  therefore  flown 
hither  to  bring  him  comfort  and  hope,  and  as  he 
sang,  the  faces  became  paler  and  the  blood  coursed 
more  freely  through  the  Emperor's  vems.  Even 
Death  himself  listened  and  said:  "Go  on,  little 
Nightingale.     Go  on." 

"Yes,  if  you  will  give  me  the  splendid  sword. 
Yes,  if  you  will  give  me  the  Imperial  banner! 
Yes,  if  you  will  give  me  the  Emperor's  crown!" 

And  Death  gave  back  all  these  treasures  for  a 
song.  And  still  the  Nightingale  sang  on.  He  sang 
of  the  quiet  churchyard,  where  the  white  roses  grow, 
where  the  elder  flowers  bloom,  and  where  the  grass 
is  kept  moist  by  the  tears  of  those  left  behind,  and 
there  came  to  Death  such  a  longing  to  see  his 
garden,  that  he  floated  out  of  the  window,  like 
a  cold  white  mist. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,"  said  the  Emperor. 
"You  heavenly  little  bird,  I  know  you  well !  I  ban- 
ished you  from  the  land,  and  you  have  charmed 
away  the  evil  spirits  from  my  bed  and  you  have 
driven  Death  from  my  heart.  How  shall  I  reward 
you?" 

"You  have  rewarded  me,"  said  the  Nightingale. 
256 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

"I  brought  tears  to  your  eyes  the  first  time  I  sang, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  that.  Those  are  the  jewels 
which  touched  the  heart  of  the  singer;  but  sleep 
now,  that  you  may  wake  fresh  and  strong.  I  will 
sing  to  you."  Then  it  sang  again,  and  the  Em^ 
peror  fell  into  a  sweet  ^leep. 

The  sun  shone  in  upon  him  through  the  window, 
when  he  woke  the  next  morning  feeling  strong  and 
well.  None  of  his  servants  had  come  back,  because 
they  thought  he  was  dead,  but  the  Nightingale  was 
still  singing. 

"You  will  always  stay  with  me,"  said  the  Em- 
peror. "You  shall  only  sing  when  it  pleases  you, 
and  I  will  break  the  artificial  Nightingale  into  a 
thousand  pieces." 

"Do  not  do  that,"  said  the  Nightingale.  "It  has 
done  the  best  it  could.  Keep  it  with  you.  I  can- 
not build  my  nest  in  a  palace,  but  let  me  come  just 
as  I  please.  I  will  sit  on  the  branch  near  the  win- 
dow, and  sing  to  you  that  you  may  be  both  joyful 
and  thoughtful.  I  will  sing  to  you  of  the  happy 
folk,  and  of  those  that  suffer;  I  will  sing  of  the  evil 
and  of  the  good,  which  is  being  hidden  from  you. 
The  little  singing  bird  flies  hither  and  thither,  to 
the  poor  fisherman,  to  the  peasant's  hut,  to  many 
who  live  far  from  you  and  the  Court.  Your  heart 
is  dearer  to  me  than  your  crown,  and  yet  the  crown 
has  a  breath  of  sanctity,  too.  I  will  come,  I  will 
sing  to  you !    But  one  thing  you  must  promise  me !" 

257 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

"All  that  you  ask,"  said  the  Emperor,  and  stood 
there  in  his  imperial  robes  which  he  had  put  on  him- 
self, and  held  the  heavy  golden  sword  on  his  heart. 

"I  beg  you,  let  no  one  know  that  you  have  a  little 
bird  who  tells  you  everything.  It  will  be  far  better 
so! 

Then  the  Nightingale  flew  away. 

The  servants  came  to  look  upon  their  dead  Em- 
peror. Yes,  there  they  stood;  and  the  Emperor 
said:    "Good  morning!" 


THE   PRINCESS   AND   THE   PEA 

There  was  once  a  Prince  who  wished  to  marry  a 
Princess,  but  she  must  be  a  real  Princess.  He  trav- 
elled all  over  the  world  to  find  one,  but  there  was  al- 
ways something  wrong.  There  were  plenty  of  Prin- 
cesses, but  whether  they  were  real  or  not  he  could 
not  be  sure.  There  was  always  something  that  was 
not  quite  right.  So  he  came  home  again,  feeling 
very  sad,  for  he  was  so  anxious  to  have  a  real  Prin- 
cess. 

One  evening  there  was  a  terrible  storm;  it  light- 
ened and  thundered,  and  the  rain  came  down  in  tor- 
rents; it  was  a  fearful  night.  In  the  midst  of  the 
storm  there  came  a  knocking  at  the  town-gate,  and 
the  old  King  himself  went  down  to  open  it.  There, 
outside,  stood  a  Princess.  But  what  a  state  she  was 
in  from  the  rain  and  the  storm!  The  water  was 
running  out  of  her  hair  on  to  her  clothes,  into  her 
shoes  and  out  at  the  heels ;  and  yet  she  said  she  was 
a  real  Princess. 

"We  shall  soon  find  out  about  that,"  thought 
the  old  Queen.  But  she  said  never  a  word.  She 
went  into  the  bedroom,  took  off  all  the  bedclothes 
and  put  a  pea  on  the  bedstead.     Then  she  took 

259 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

twenty  mattresses  and  laid  them  on  the  pea  and 
twenty  eider-down  quilts  on  the  mattresses.  And 
the  Princess  was  to  sleep  on  the  top  of  all. 

In  the  morning  they  came  to  her  and  asked  her 
how  she  had  slept. 

"Oh !  wretchedly,"  said  the  Princess.  "I  scarcely 
closed  my  eyes  the  whole  night  long.  Heaven 
knows  what  could  have  been  in  the  bed!  I  have 
lain  upon  something  hard,  so  that  my  whole  body 
is  black  and  blue.    It  is  quite  dreadful." 

They  could  see  now  that  she  was  a  real  Princess, 
because  she  had  felt  the  pea  through  twenty  mat- 
tresses and  twenty  eider-down  quilts.  Nobody  but 
a  real  Princess  could  be  so  sensitive. 

So  the  Prince  married  her,  for  now  he  knev/  that 
he  had  found  a  real  Princess,  and  the  pea  was  sent 
to  an  Art  Museum,  where  it  can  still  be  seen,  if 
nobody  has  taken  it  away. 

Now,  mark  you :    This  is  a  true  story. 


PART  III 

LIST    OF    STORIES 

BOOKS  SUGGESTED  TO  THE  STORY- 
TELLER AND  BOOKS  REFERRED  TO  IN 
THE  LIST  OF  STORIES 


I  had  intended,  in  this  section,  to  offer  an  appen- 
dix of  titles  of  stories  and  books  which  should  cover 
all  the  ground  of  possible  narrative  in  schools;  but 
I  have  found  so  many  lists  containing  standard 
books  and  stories,  that  I  have  decided  that  this 
original  plan  would  be  a  work  of  supererogation. 
What  is  really  needed  is  a  supplementary  list  to 
those  already  published — a  specialized  list  which  is 
the  result  of  private  research  and  personal  experi- 
ence. I  have  for  many  years  spent  considerable 
time  in  the  British  Museum  and  some  of  the  prin- 
cipal libraries  in  America.  I  now  offer  the  fruit  of 
my  labor. 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

CLASSICAL    STORIES 

The  Story    of  Theseus.    From  Kingsley's  "Heroes." 
How  Theseus  lifted  the  stone. 
How  Theseus  slew  the  Corynetes. 
How  Theseus  slew  Sinis. 
How  Theseus  slew  Kerkyon  and  Procrustes. 
How  Theseus  slew  the  Medea  and  was  acknowledged 

the  son  of  ^geus. 
How  Theseus  slew  the  Minotaur. 

To  be  told  in  rix  parts  as  a  series. 

The  Story  of  Crcesus. 

The  Conspiracy  of  the  Magi. 

Arion  and  the  Dolphin. 

From  "Wonder  Tales  from  Herodotus,"  by  N.  Bar- 
rington   D'Almeida. 

These  stories  are  intended  for  reading,  but  could  be  short- 
ened for  effective  narration. 

Coriolanus. 
Julius  C^sar. 
Aristides. 
Alexander. 

From  "Plutarch's  Lives  for  Boys  and  Girls,"  by  W. 
H.    Weston. 

These  stories  must  be  shortened  and  adapted  for  narra- 
tion. 

263 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  God  of  the  Spears:  the  Story  of  Romulus. 
His  Father's  Crown  :  the  Story  of  Alcibiades. 

From  "Tales  from  Plutarch,"  by  F.  J.  Rowbotham. 

These  stories  may  be  shortened  and  told  in  sections. 

EAST   INDIAN    STORIES 

The  Wise  Old  Shepherd. 
The  Religious  Camel. 

From  "The  Talking  Thrush,"  by  W.  H.  D.  Rouse. 

Less  Inequality  Than  Men  Deem. 

From  "Old  Deccan  Days,"  by  Mary  Frere. 

The  Brahman,  the  Tiger  and  the  Six  Judges. 

This  story  may  be  found  in  "The  Fairy  Ring,"  edited  by 
Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  Archibald  Smith;  also  in 
"Tales  of  the  Punjab,"  by  F.  A.  Steel,  under  the  title  of 
"The  Tiger,  the  Brahman  and  the  Jackal." 

Tit  for  Tat. 

From  "Old  Deccan  Days,"  by   Mary   Frere. 
This  story  may  be  found  in  "The  Fairy  Ring,"  edited  by 
Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  Archibald  Smith. 

"Pride  Goeth  Before  a  Fall." 
Harisarman. 

From  "Indian  Fairy  Tales/*  by  Joseph  Jacobs. 

The  Bear's  Bad  Bargain. 
Little  Anklebone. 
Peasie  and  Beansie. 

From  "Tales  of  the  Punjab,"  by  F.  A.  Steel. 

The  Weaver  and  the  Watermelon. 
The  Tiger  and  the  Hare. 

From  "Indian  Nights  Entertainment,"  by  Synnerton. 
264 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

The  Virtuous  Animals. 

This  story  should  be  abridged  for  narration. 

The  Ass  as  Singer. 

The  Wolf  and  the  Sheep. 

From  "Tibetan  Tales,"  by  F.  A.  Schiefner. 

A  Story  About  Robbers. 

From  "Out  of  the  East,"  by  Lafcadio  Hearn. 

Dripping. 

From  "Indian  Fairy  Tales,"  by  Mark  Thornhill.        • 

The  Buddha  as  Tree-Spirit. 
The  Buddha  as  Parrot. 
The  Buddha  as  King. 

From  "A  Collection  of  Eastern  Stories  and  Legends," 
by  M.  L.  Shedlock. 

Rakshas  and  Bakshas. 

This  story  may  be  found  in  "Tales  of  Laughter,"  ed- 
ited by  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin  and  Nora  Archibald 
Smith,  under  the  title  of  "The  Blind  Man,  the  Deaf 
Man  and  the  Donkey." 

The  Bread  of  Discontent. 

From  "Legendary  Lore  of  all  Nations." 

A  Germ  Destroyer. 

Namgary  Doola. 

A  good  story  for  boys,  to  be  given  in  shortened  form. 
From  "The  Kipling  Reader,"  by  Rudyard  Kipling. 

A  Stupid  Boy. 

The  Clever  Jackal. 

One  of  the  few  stories  wherein  the  Jackal  shows  skill 
combined  with  gratitude. 

From  "Folk  Tales  of  Kashmir,"  by  J.  H.  Knowles. 
265 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Why  the  Fish  Laughed. 

From  "Folk  Tales  of  Kashmir,"  by  J.  H.  Knowles. 

MYTHS,  LEGENDS  AND  FAIRY  TALES 

How  THE  Herring  Became  King. 
Joe  Moore's  Story. 
The  Mermaid  of  Gob  Ny  Ooyl. 
King  Magnus  Barefoot. 

From  "Manx  Tales,"  by  Sophia  Morrison. 

The  Greedy  Man. 

From   "Contes    Populaires   Malgaches,"   by   Gabriel 
Ferrand. 

Arbutus. 
Basil. 
Briony. 
Dandelion. 

From  "Myths  and  Legends  of  Flowers,  Trees,  Fruits, 
and  Plants,"  by  C.  M.  Skinner. 

The  Magic  Picture. 

The  Stone  Monkey. 

Stealing  Peaches. 

The  Country  of  Gentlemen. 

Football  on  a  Lake. 

From  "Chinese  Fairy  Tales,"  by  H.  A.  Giles. 

The  Lime  Tree. 

Intelligence  and  Luck. 

The  Frost,  the  Sun  and  Wind. 

From  "Sixty  Folk  Tales  from  Slavonic  Sources,"  by 
O.  H.  Wratislaw. 

266 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

The  Boy  Who  Slept. 

The  Gods  Know. 

From  "Chinese  Fairy  Stories,"  by  N.  A.  Pitnam. 
This  story  must  be  shortened  and  adapted  for  narration. 

The  Imp  Tree. 

The  Pixy  Flower. 

Tom  Tit  Tot. 

The  Princess  of  Colchester. 

From  "Fairy  Gold,"  by  Ernest  Rhys. 

The  Origin  of  the  Mole. 

From  "Cossack  Fairy  Tales,"  by  R.  N.  Bain. 

Dolls  and  Butterflies. 

From  "Myths  and  Legends  of  Japan,"  by  F.  H.  Davis. 

The  Child  of  the  Forest. 
The  Sparrow's  Wedding. 
The  Moon  Maiden. 

From  "Old  World  Japan,"  by  Frank  Rinder. 

The  Story  of  Merlin. 

From  "Stories  of  Early  British  Heroes,"  by  C.  G. 
Hartley. 

The  Isle  of  the  Mystic  Lake. 

From  "The  Voyage  of  Maildun,"  in  "Old  Celtic  Ro- 
mances," by  P.  W.  Joyce. 

The  Story  of  Baldur. 

From  "Heroes  of  Asgard,"  by  M.  R.  Earle. 
In  three  parts  for  young  children. 

Adalhero. 

From  "Evenings  with  the  Old  Story  Tellers." 
267 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Martin  the  Peasant's  Son. 

From  "Russian  Wonder  Tales,"  by  Post  Wheeler. 
This  is  more  suitable  for  reading. 

The  Legend  of  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

From  "Rip  Van  Winkle,"  by  Washington  Irving. 

Urashima. 

From  "Myths  and  Legends  of  Japan,"  by  F.  H.  Davis. 

The  Monk  and  the  Bird. 

From  "The  Book  of  Legends  Told  Over  Again/*  by 
H.  E.  Scudder. 

Carob. 

From    "Myths    and    Legends    of    Flowers,    Trees, 
Fruits  and  Plants,"  by  C.  M.  Skinner. 
A  Talmud  legend. 

The  Land  of  Eternal  Youth. 
From  "Child-Lore." 

Catskin. 

Guy  of  Gisborne. 

King  Henry  and  the  Miller. 

From  "A  Book  of  Ballad  Stories,"  by  Mary  Macleod. 

The  Legend  of  the  Black  Prince. 
Why  the  Wolves  no  Longer  Devour  the  Lambs  on 
Christmas  Night. 

From  "Au  Pays  des  Legendes,"  by  Eugene  Herpin. 

The  Coyote  and  the  Locust. 

The  Coyote  and  the  Ravens  Who  Raced  Their  Eyes. 
From  "Zuni  Folk  Tales,"  by  F.  H.  Cushing. 

The  Peacemaker. 

From  "Legends  of  the  Iroquois,"  by  W.  V.  Canfield. 
268 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

The  Story  of  the  Great  Chief  of  the  Animals. 
The  Story  of  Lion  and  Little  Jackal. 

From  "Kaffir  Folk  Tales,"  by  G.  M.  Theal. 

The  Legend  of  the  Great  St.  Nicholas. 
The  Three  Counsels. 

From  "Bulletin  De  Folk  Lore,  Liege." 

The  Tale  of  the  Peasant  Demyar. 

The  Monkey  and  the  Pomegranate  Tree. 

The  Ant  and  the  Snow. 

The  Value  of  an  Egg. 

The  Padre  and  the  Negro. 

Papranka. 

From  "Tales  of  Old  Lusitania,"  by  Coelho. 

KOJATA. 

The  Lost  Spear.     (To  be  shortened.) 

The  Hermit.     (By  Voltaire.) 

The  Blue  Cat.     (From  the  French.) 

The  Silver  Penny. 

The  Three  Sisters. 

The  Slippers  of  Abou-Karem. 

From  "The  Golden  Fairy  Book."" 

The  Fairy  Baby. 

From  "Uncle  Remus  in  Hansaland,"  by  Mary  and 
Newman  Tremearne. 

Why  the  Sole  of  a  Man's  Foot  Is  Uneven. 
The  Wonderful  Hair. 
The  Emperor  Trojan's  Goat  Ears. 
The  Language  of  Animals. 
Handicraft  Above  Everything. 

269 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Just  Earnings  Are  Never  Lost. 
The  Maiden  Who  Was  Swifter  Than  a  Horse. 
From  "Servian  Stories  and  Legends." 

Le  Couple  Silencieux. 
Le  Mort  Parlant. 
La  Sotte  Fiancee. 
Le  CoRNAqoN. 
Persin  Au  Pot. 

From  "Contes  Populaires  du  Pays  Wallon/*  by  Au- 
gust Gittee. 

The  Rat  and  the  Cat. 
The  Two  Thieves. 
The  Two  Rats. 
The  Dog  and  the  Rat. 

From   "Contes   Populaires   Malgaches,"   by   Gabriel 
Ferrand. 

RUA  AND  TOKA. 

From  "The  Maori  Tales/'  by  K.  M.  Clark. 

John  and  the  Pig. 

From  "Old  Hungarian  Tales,"  by  Baroness   Orczy 
and  Montagu  Marstow. 

This  story  is  given  for  the  same  purpose  as  "A  Long- 
Bow  Story"  from  Andrew  Lang's  "Olive  Fairy  Book." 

Lady  Clare. 
The  Wolf-Child. 

From  "Tales  from  the  Land  of  Grapes  and  Nuts," 
by  Charles  Sellers. 

The  Ungrateful  Man. 
The  Faithful  Servant.     (In  part.) 

270 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

JOVINIAN,  THE  PrOUD  EmPEROR. 

The  Knight  and  the  King  of  Hungary. 
The  Wicked  Priest. 

The  Emperor  Conrad  and  the  Count's  Son. 
From  the  "Gesta  Romanorum." 

Virgil,  the  Emperor  and  the  Truffles. 

From  "Unpublished  Legends  of  Virgil,"  collected  by 
C.  G.  Leland. 

Seeing  That  All  Was  Right.    (A  good  story  for  boys.) 

La  Fortuna. 

The  Lanterns  of  the  Stozzi  Palace. 

From  "Legends  of  Florence/*  by  C.  G.  Leland. 

The  Three  Kingdoms. 

Yelena  the  Wise. 

Seven  Simeons. 

Ivan,  the  Bird  and  the  Wolf. 

The  Pig,  the  Deer  and  the  Steed. 

Waters  of  Youth. 

The  Useless  Wagoner. 

From  "Myths  and  Folk  Tales  of  the  Russians,  West- 
ern Slavs  and  Magyars,"  by  Jeremiah  Curtin. 
These  stories  need  shortening  and  adapting. 

The  Comical  History  of  the  King  and  the  Cobbler. 
This  story  should  be  shortened  to  add  to  the  dramatic 
power. 

[From  a  Chap  Book.] 

The  Fisherman  and  His  Wife. 

From  "Fairy  Tales,"  by  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 
271 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Hereafter  This. 

From  "More  English  Fairy  Tales,"  by  Joseph  Jacobs. 

This  story  and  "The  Fisherman  and  His  Wife"  are  great 
favorites  and  could  be  told  one  after  the  other,  one  to  illus- 
trate the  patient  wife,  and  the  other  the  patient  husband. 

How  A  Man  Found  His  Wife  in  the  Land  of  the 
Dead. 

This  is  a  very  dramatic  and  pagan  story,  to  be  used 
with  discretion. 

The  Man  Without  Hands  and  Feet. 
The  Cockerel. 

From  "Papuan  Fairy  Tales,"  by  Annie  Ker. 

The  Story  of  Sir  Tristram  and  La  Belle  Iseult. 

From  "Cornwall's  Wonderland,"  by  Mabel  Quiller- 
Couch. 

To  be  told  in  shortened  form. 

The  Cat  That  Went  to  the  Doctor. 

The  Wood  Anemone. 

Sweeter  Than  Sugar. 

The  Raspberry  Caterpillar. 

From  "Fairy  Tales  from  Finland,"  by  Zachris  To- 
pelius. 

DiNEVAN,   THE  EmU. 

GOOMBLE    GUBBON,    THE    BuSTARD. 

From  "Australian  Legendary  Tales,"  by  Mrs.  K.  L. 
Parker. 

The  Tulip  Bed. 

From   "The  English  Fairy   Book,  by  Ernest   Rhys. 
I  have  been  asked  so  often  for  this  particular  story  I  am 
glad  to  be  able  to  provide  it  in  very  poetical  language. 
272 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

STORIES  FROM  GRIMM  AND  ANDERSEN 

The  Fisherman  and  His  Wife. 

The  Wolf  and  the  Kids. 

The  Adventures  of  Chanticleer  and  Partlet. 

The  Old  Man  and  His  Grandson. 

rumpelstiltskin. 

The  Queen  Bee. 

The  Wolf  and  the  Man. 

The  Golden  Goose. 

From  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,  edited  by  Mrs.  Edgar 
Lucas. 

Ole-Luk-Oie,     Series  of  seven  stories. 
What  the  Old  Man  Does  Is  Always  Right. 
The  Princess  and  the  Pea. 

Thumbelina.    For  younger  children.    From  Andersen's 
Fairy  Tales. 

It's  Quite  True. 

Five  Out  of  One  Pod. 

Great  Glaus  and  Little  Claus. 

Jack  the  Dullard. 

The  Buckwheat. 

The  Fir-Tree. 

The  Little  Tin  Soldier. 

The  Nightingale. 

The  Ugly  Duckling. 

The  Swineherd. 

The  Sea  Serpent. 

The  Little  Match  Girl. 

273 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  Gardener  and  His  Family. 

For  older  children.     From  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales. 

The  two  best  editions  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen's 
fairy  tales  are  the  translation  by  Mrs.  Edgar  Lucas  and  the 
only  complete  English  edition  by  W.  A.  and  J.  K.  Craigie. 


STORIES  FROM  THE  FAIRY  BOOK  SERIES 

edited  by  andrew  lang. 

The  Serpent's  Gifts. 

Unlucky  John. 

From  "All  Sorts  of  Stories  Book,"  by  Mrs.  L.  B. 
Lang. 

Makoma. 

From  "The  Orange  Fairy  Book."    A  story  for  boys. 

The  Lady  of  Solace. 

How  THE  Ass  Became  a  Man  Again. 

Amys  and  Amile. 

The  Burning  of  Njal. 

Ogier  the  Dane. 

From  "The  Red  Romance  Book." 

The  Heart  of  a  Donkey. 
The  Wonderful  Tune. 
A  French  Puck. 
A  Fish  Story. 

From  "The  Lilac  Fairy  Book." 

East  of  the  Sun  and  West  of  the  Moon. 

As  a  preparation  for  Cupid  and  Psyche.    From  "The 
Blue  Fairy  Book." 
The  Half  Chick. 

274 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

The  Story  of  Hok  Lee  and  the  Dwarfs. 
From  "The  Green  Fairy  Book." 

How  to  Find  a  True  Friend. 

From  "The  Crimson  Fairy  Book."  To  be  given  in 
shorter  form. 

A  LoNG-Bow  Story. 

From  "The  Olive  Fairy  Book."  This  story  makes 
children  learn  to  distinguish  between  falsehood  and  ro- 
mance. 

Kanny^  the  Kangaroo. 

The  Story  of  Tom  the  Bear. 

From  "The  Animal  Story  Book." 

The  Story  of  the  Fisherman. 

Aladdin  and  the  Lamp.    This  story  should  be  divided 
and  told  in  two  sections. 

The  Story  of  Ali  Cogia. 

From  "The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainment,"  edited 
by  Andrew  Lang. 

STORIES  ILLUSTRATING  COMMON-SENSE  RESOURCE- 
FULNESS AND  HUMOR 

The  Thief  and  the  Cocoanut  Tree. 

The  Woman  and  the  Lizard. 

Sada  Sada. 

The  S  hop-Keeper  and  the  Robber. 

The  Reciter. 

Rich  Man's  Potsherd. 

The  Singer  and  the  Donkey. 

Child  and  Milk. 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Rich  Man  Giving  a  Feast. 
King  Solomon  and  the  Mosquitoes. 
The  King  Who  Promised  to  Look  After  Tennal  Ra- 
nan^s  Family. 

ViKADAKAVI. 

Horse  and  Complainant. 

The  Woman  and  the  Stolen  Fruit. 

From  "An  Indian  Tale  or  Two/*  by  William  Swinton. 


STORIES  DEALING  WITH  THE  SUCCESS  OF  THE 
YOUNGEST  CHILD 

This  is  sometimes  due  to  a  kind  action  shown  to  some 
humble  person  or  to  an  animal. 

The  Three  Sons. 

From    "The    Kiltartan    Wonder    Book,"    by    Lady 
Gregory. 

The  Flying  Ship. 

From  "Russian  Fairy  Tales,"  by  R.  N.  Bain. 

How  Jesper  Herded  the  Hares. 

From  "The  Violet  Fairy  Book,"  by  Andrew  Lang. 

Youth,  Life  and  Death. 

From  "Myths  and  Folk  Tales  of  the  Russians,  West- 
ern Slavs  and  Magyars,"  by  Jeremiah  Curtin. 

Jack  the  Dullard. 

From  "Fairy  Tales,"  by  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

The  Enchanted  Whistle. 

From  "The  Golden  Fairy  Book." 

The  King's  Three  Sons. 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

Hunchback  and  Brothers. 

From  "Legends  of  the  French  Provinces." 

The  Little  Humpbacked  Horse. 

From  "Russian  Wonder  Tales,"  by  Post  Wheeler. 
This  story  is  more  suitable  for  reading  than  telling. 

The  Queen  Bee. 

From  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,  edited  by  Mrs.  Edgar 
Lucas. 
The  Wonderful  Bird. 

From  "Roumanian  Fairy  Tales,"  by  J.  M.  Percival. 

STORIES  FROM  THE  LIVES  OF  THE  SAINTS 

The  Story  of  Saint  Brandon.    Vol.  7,  page  52. 
The  Story  of  Saint  Francis.     Vol.  5,  page  125. 
The  Story  of  Santa  Clara  and  the  Roses. 
Saint  Elizabeth  of  Hungary.    Vol.  6,  page  213. 
Saint  Martin  and  the  Cloak.     Vol.  6,  page  142. 
From  the  "Legenda  Aurea." 

The  Legend  of  Saint  Marjory. 
From  "Tales  Facetiae." 

Melangell's  Lambs. 

From  "The  Welsh  Fairy  Book,"  by  W.  J.  Thomas. 

Our  Lady's  Tumbler. 

Twelfth  Century  Legend  Done  Out  of  Old  French 
into  English,  by  J.  H.  Wickstead. 

This  story  may  be  shortened  and  adapted  without  sacri- 
ficing too  much  of  the  beauty  of  the  style. 

The  Song  of  the  Minister. 

From  "A  Child's  Book  of  Saints,"  by  William  Canton. 
This  should  be  shortened  and  somewhat  simplified  for 
narration,  especially  in  the  technical,  ecclesiastical  terms. 

277 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

The  Story  of  Saint  Kenelm,  the  Little  King. 
The  Story  of  King  Alfred  and  Saint  Cuthbert. 
The  Story  of  Aedburg,  the  Daughter  of  Edward. 
The  Story  of  King  Harold's  Sickness  and  Recovery. 
From  "Old  English  History  for  Children,"  by  E.  A. 
Freeman. 

I  commend  all  those  who  tell  these  stories  to  read  the 
comments  made  on  them  by  K  A,  Freeman  himself. 

MODERN  STORIES 

The  Summer  Princess. 

From  "The  Enchanted  Garden,"  by  Mrs.  M.  L.  Moles- 
worth. 

This  may  be  shortened  and  arranged  for  narration. 

Thomas  and  the  Princess. 

From  "Twenty-six  Ideal  Stories  for  Girls,"  by  Helena 
M.  Conrad. 

A  fairy  tale  for  grown-ups,  for  pure  relaxation. 

The  Truce  of  God. 

From  "All-Fellows  Seven  Legends  of  Lower  Re- 
demption," by  Laurence  Housman. 

The  Selfish  Giant. 

From  "Fairy  Tales,"  by  Oscar  Wilde. 

The  Legend  of  the  Tortoise. 

From  "Windlestraw,  Legends  in  Rhyme  of  Plants 
and  Animals,"  by  Pamela  Glenconner.  From  the  Pro- 
vencal. 

Fairy  Grumblesnooks. 

A  Bit  of  Laughter's  Smile. 

From  "Tales  for  Little  People,"  Nos.  323  and  318, 
by  Maud  Symonds. 

278 


LIST  OF  STORIES 

The  Fairy  Who  Judged  Her  Neighbors. 

From  -The  Little  Wonder  Box,"  in  "Stories  Told  to 
a  Child,"  by  Jean  Ingelow. 

Le  Courage. 

L'ficoLE. 

Le  Jour  De  Catherine. 

Jacqueline  Et  Mirant. 

From  "Nos  En  f ants,"  by  Anatole  France. 

The  Giant  and  the  Jackstraw. 

From  "The  Book  of  Knight  and  Barbara,"  by  David 
Starr  Jordan.    For  very  small  children. 

The  Musician. 

The  Legend  of  the  Christmas  Rose. 

From   "The   Girl   from   the   Marshcroft,"   by   Selma 

Lagerlof.    Both  stories  should  be  shortened  and  adapted 

for  narration. 

I  trust  that  the  grouping  of  my  stories  in  this  section 
may  not  be  misleading.  Under  "Myths,  Legends  and 
Fairy  Tales"  I  have  included  many  stories  which  contain 
valuable  ethical  teaching,  deep  philosophy  and  stimulating 
examples  for  conduct  in  life.  I  regret  that  I  have  been 
unable  to  find  a  good  collection  of  stories  from  history 
for  narrative  purposes.  I  have  made  a  careful  and 
lengthy  search,  but  the  stories  are  all  written  from  the 
reading  point  of  view  rather  than  the  telling. 


BOOKS  SUGGESTED  TO  THE  STORY-TELLER 

AND  BOOKS  REFERRED  TO  IN  THE 

LIST  OF  STORIES 

Andersen,  Hans  Christian 

Fairy  Tales;  translated  by  Mrs.  Edgar  Lucas.  Dut- 
ton.  Fairy  Tales;  edited  by  W.  A.  and  J.  K.  Craigie. 
Oxford  University  Press. 

Babbitt,  E.  C. 

Jataka  Tales.     Century. 

Bain,  R.  N. 

Cossack  Fairy  Tales.    Burt. 
Russian  Fairy  Tales.     Burt. 

Briant,  Egbert 

History  of  English  Balladry.    Badger. 

Buddha. 

The  Jataka;  or  Stories  of  the  Buddha's  Former 
Births;  translated  from  the  Pali  by  Various  Hands. 
In  Six  Volumes.    University  Press. 

Buckley,  E.  F. 

Children  of  the  Dawn.    Stokes. 

Bulletin,  of  Folk  Lore.    Liege. 

Calthorpe,  Dion  C. 

King  Peter.    Duckworth. 

Canfield,  W.  W. 

The  Legends  of  the  Iroquois.    Wessels. 
280 


BOOKS  SUGGESTED  TO  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Canton,  William 

A  Child's  Book  of  Saints.     Button. 
A  Child's  Book  of  Warriors.     Button. 

Child  Lore.    Nimmo. 

Chodzko,  a.  E.  B. 

Slav  Fairy  Tales ;  translated  by  E.  J.  Harding.    Burt. 

Clark,  K.  M. 

Maori  Tales.    Nutt. 

COELHO, 

Tales  of  Old  Lusitania.     Swan  Sonnenschein. 

Conrad,  Joseph 

Twenty-six  Ideal  Stories  for  Girls.    Hutchinson. 

Couch,  Mabel  Quiller- 

Cornwall's  Wonderland.    Button. 

CuRTiN,  Jeremiah 

Myths   and   Folk   Tales   of   the   Russians,   Western 
Slavs  and  Magyars.    Little. 

CUSHING,  F.  H. 

Zuni  Folk  Tales.    Putnam. 

Barton,  E.  J.  H. 

Pilgrim  Tales;   from  Tales  of  the  Canterbury  Pil- 
grims.   Bodge. 
Wonder  Book  of  Old  Romance.    Stokes. 

Basent,  Sir,  G.  W. 

Norse  Fairy  Tales.    Putnam. 

Bavids,  T.  W.  Rhys 

Buddhist  Birth  Stories.    Triibner. 

Bavis,  F.  H. 

Myths  and  Legends  of  Japan.     Crowell. 
281 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Earle,  M.  R. 

Heroes  of  Asgard.    Macmillan. 
Evenings  with  the  Old  Story  Tellers.    Leavitt  and 
Allen. 

EwALD,  Carl 

The  Queen  Bee  and  Other  Nature  Tales;  translated 
by  C.  C.  Moore-Smith.    Nelson. 

Ferrand,  Gabriel 

Contes  Populaires  Malgaches.     Leroux. 
FiELDE,  Adele 

Chinese  Nights*  Entertainment.    Putnam. 

France,  Anatole 

Nos  Enfants.    Hachette. 

Freeman,  E.  A. 

Old  English  History  for  Children.    Button. 

Frere,  Mary 

Old  Deccan  Days.    Murray. 

Froissart 

Stories   from  Froissart;  edited  by  Henry  Newbolt. 
Macmillan. 

Gesta  Romanorum.    Swan  Sonnenschein. 

Giles,  H.  A. 

Chinese  Fairy  Tales.    Gowans. 

Gittee,  August 

Contes  Populaires  du  Pays  Wallon.    Vanderpooten. 

Glenconner,  Lady  (Pamela  Tennant) 

Windlestraw,  Legends  in  Rhyme  of  Plants  and  Ani- 
mals.   Chiswick  Press. 

Golden  Fairy  Book.    Hutchinson. 

Gregory,  Lady  Augusta 

The  Kiltartan  Wonder  Book.    Dutton. 
282 


BOOKS  SUGGESTED  TO  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Grimm,  J.  L.  K.  and  W.  K.  Grimm 

Fairy  Tales;  translated  by  Mrs.  Edgar  Lucas.    Lip- 
pincott. 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 

Uncle  Remus ;  His  Songs  and  His  Sayings.   Appleton. 

Hartley,  C.  G. 

Stories  of  Early  British  Heroes.     Dent. 

Hearn,  Lafcadio 

Out  of  the  East.    Houghton. 

Herodotus 

Wonder  Stories  from  Herodotus;  edited  by  N.  Har- 
rington D*  Almeida.    Harper. 

Herpin,  Eugene 

Au  Pays  Du  Legendes.     Calliere. 

HiGGINS,  M.  M. 

Stories  from  the  History  of  Ceylon   for  Children. 
Capper. 

Housman,  Laurence 

All-Fellows   Seven  Legends  of  Lower  Redemption. 
Kegan  Paul. 

Ingelow,  Jean 

The  Little  Wonder  Box.    Griffeths,  Farren  and  Com- 
pany. 
Stories  Told  to  a  Child.     Little. 

Irving,  Washington 

Rip  Van  Winkle.    Macmillan. 

Jacobs,  Joseph 

Indian  Fairy  Tales.    Putnam. 

More  English  Fairy  Tales.     Putnam. 

Jordan,  David  Starr 

The  Book  of  Knight  and  Barbara.    Appleton. 
283 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Joyce,  P.  W. 

Old  Celtic  Romances.    Longmans. 

Keary,  Annie  and  Eliza 

Heroes  of  Asgard.    Macmillan. 

Ker,  Annie 

Papuan  Fairy  Tales.    Macmillan. 

Ker,  W.  p. 

Epic  and  Romance.     Macmillan. 
On  the  History  of  the  Ballads  from  iioo  to  1500. 
British  Academy. 

Kingsley,  Charles 

Heroes.    Macmillan. 

Kipling,  Rudyard 

The  Jungle  Book.    Macmillan. 
The  Kipling  Reader.    Appleton. ' 
The  Second  Jungle  Book.    Macmillan. 

Knowles,  J.  H. 

Folk  Tales  of  Kashmir.    Triibner. 

Lagerlof,  Selma 

The  Girl  from  the  Marshcroft.    Little. 

Lang,  Andrew 

Arabian  Nights*  Entertainment.    Longmans. 
The  Animal  Story  Book.    Longmans. 
The  Blue  Fairy  Book.     Longmans. 
The  Crimson  Fairy  Book.    Longmans. 
The  Green  Fairy  Book.     Longmans. 
The  Lilac  Fairy  Book.    Longmans. 
The  Olive  Fairy  Book.     Longmans. 
The  Orange  Fairy  Book.    Longmans. 
The  Red  Romance  Book.     Longmans. 
The  Violet  Fairy  Book.    Longmans. 
284 


BOOKS  SUGGESTED  TO  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Lang,  L.  B. 

All  Sorts  of  Stories  Book.    Longmans. 

Legenda  Aurea. 

Legends  of  the  French  Provinces. 

Leland,  C.  G. 

Legends  of  Florence.    Macmillan. 
Unpublished  Legends  of  Virgil.     Stock. 

Mackenzie 

Indian    Myths   and   Legends.    Gresham   Publishing 
House. 

Macleod,  Mary 

A  Book  of  Ballad  Stories.    Stokes. 

Molesworth,  Mrs.  M.  L. 

The  Enchanted  Garden.    Unwin. 

Moncrieff,  a.  H.  Hope 

Classic   Myths   and   Legends.    Gresham   Publishing 
House. 

Morrison,  Sophia 

Manx  Fairy  Tales.    Nutt. 

Naake,  J.  T. 

Slavonic  Fairy  Talcs.    King. 

Noble,  M.  E.  and  K.  Coomaraswamy 

Myths  of  the  Hindus  and  Buddhists.    Holt. 

Orczy,  Baroness  and  Montagu  Barstow 
Old  Hungarian  Fairy  Tales.     Dean. 

Parker,  Mrs.  K.  L. 

Australian  Legendary  Tales.     Nutt. 

Pearse,  W.  G. 

The  Children's  Library  of  the  Saints.    Jackson. 
285 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Percival,  J.  M. 

Roumanian  Fairy  Tales.    Holt. 

Perrault,  Charles 

Fairy  Tales.    Button. 

Pitman,  N.  H. 

Chinese  Fairy  Stories.    Crowell. 

Plutarch 

Plutarch's  Lives  for  Boys  and  Girls;  retold  by  W. 

H.  Weston.     Stokes. 

Tales  from  Plutarch,  by  F.  J.  Rowbotham.    Crowell. 

Ragozin,  Z.  a. 

Tales  of  the  Heroic  Ages;  Frithjof,  Viking  of  Nor- 
way, and  Roland,  Paladin  of  France.     Putnam. 

Tales  of  the  Heroic  Ages;  Siegfried,  Hero  of  the 
North,  and  Beowulf,  Hero  of  Anglo-Saxons. 
Putnam. 

Rattray,  R.  S. 

Hansa  Folk  Lore,  Customs,  Proverbs,  etc.  Clarendon 
Press. 

Rhys,  Ernest 

The  English  Fairy  Book.     Stokes. 

Fairy  Gold.     Dutton. 

The  Garden  of  Romance.    Kegan  Paul. 

Rinder,  Frank 

Old  World  Japan.    Allen. 

Robinson,  T.  H. 

Tales  an4  Talks  from  History.    Caldwell. 

Rouse,  W.  H.  D. 

The  Talking  Thrush.    Dutton. 

SCHIEFNER,    F.   A. 

Tibetan  Tales.    Trubner. 
286 


BOOKS  SUGGESTED  TO  THE  STORY-TELLER 

SCUDDER^    H.    E. 

The  Book  of  Legends  Told  Over  Again.     Houghton. 

Sellers,  Charles 

Tales  from  the  Land  of  Grapes  and  Nuts.     Field  and 
Tuer. 

Servian  Stories  and  Legends. 

Shedlock,  M.  L. 

A  Collection  of  Eastern  Stories  and  Legends.  Dutton. 

Skinner^  C.  M. 

Myths  and  Legends  of  Flowers,  Trees,  Fruits  and 
Plants.     Lippincott. 

Smith,  J.  C.  and  G.  Soutar 

Book  of  Ballads  for  Boys  and  Girls.     Oxford  Uni- 
versity Press. 

Steel,  Mrs.  F.  A. 

Tales  of  the  Punjab.    Macmillan. 

Strickland,  W.  W. 

Northwest  Slav  Legends  and  Fairy  Stories.     Erben. 

SWINTON 

An  Indian  Tale  or  Two;  Reprinted  from  Blackheath 
Local  Guide. 

SwiNTON   AND    CaTHCART. 

Legendary  Lore  of  all   Nations.     Ivison,  Taylor  & 
Company. 

Synnerton, 

Indian  Nights'  Entertainment.     Stock. 

Tales  Faceti^. 

Tennant,  Pamela  (Lady  Glenconner) 

The  Children  and  the  Pictures.    Macmillan. 

Theal,  G.  M. 

Kaffir  Folk  Lore.     Swan  Sonnenschein. 

287 


THE  ART  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

Thomas,  W.  J. 

The  Welsh  Fairy  Book.    Stokes. 

Thornhill,  Mark 

Indian  Fairy  Tales.     Hatchard. 

TopELius,  Zachris 

Fairy  Tales   from  Finland.     Unwin. 

Tremearne,  Mary  and  Newman 
Uncle  Remus  in  Hansaland. 

Wheeler,  Post 

Russian  Wonder  Tales.     Century. 

WiCKSTEAD,  J.  H. 

Our  Lady's  Tumbler;  Twelfth  Century  Legend  Done 
Out  of  Old  French  into  English.     Mosher. 

WiGOiN,  Kate  Douglas  and  Nora  Archibald  Smith 
The  Fairy  Ring.     Doubleday. 
Tales  of  Laughter.     Doubleday. 

Wilde,  Oscar 

Fairy  Tales.     Putnam. 

Wilson,  Richard 

The  Indian  Story  Book.     Macmillan. 

Wratislaw,  a.  H. 

Sixty  Folk  Tales  from  Exclusively  Slavonic  Sources. 
Stock. 


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